


Soul Cages

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-09-21
Updated: 2003-09-23
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:25:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set post S3. Wes is sleeping with the enemy, Angel's sleeping with the fishes, and Faith's not sleeping well at all...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Chaos of Cages

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

NOTES: Chapter 1 of 8 (I hope). Set post Season 3 - story starts as canon, going AU. (Not terribly AU, you know, just enough...) The story will be told through multiple POVs: I'm hoping it will be obvious who's talking.   
This chap. features some dialogue from "Loyalty" and "Tomorrow". Title of the fic, chapter titles and quotes all come from the song "The Soul Cages" by Sting (1990).

 

PROLOGUE: In the Chaos of Cages

 

The boy child is locked in the fisherman's yard  
There's a bloodless moon where the oceans die  
A shoal of nightstars hang fire in the nets  
And the chaos of cages where the crayfish lie

Darkness falling.

The door closed behind her, her heavy scent lingering, wafted into the bedroom by the breeze from the open window. He sighed as the obviously expensive dark rose musk clouded around him, then dropped bare feet onto the wooden floor.

His clothes lay puddled next to the bed, where she had thrown them. He nudged the pile with the edge of his foot, noted with a rather wistful displeasure that his charcoal grey shirt was now completely devoid of buttons. He sighed again, sifted through the heap and retrieved his shorts and pulled them on.

He padded barefoot across the floorboards to the window, in time to see her slip out of the apartment building, bra tucked somewhat indiscreetly into her coat pocket. She paused at the car door, swung her head up towards his window, peering through tousled curls. She tucked the curtain of hair behind her ear, a sleek feline movement, grooming herself. She knew he was watching; this show carefully rehearsed. His heart stuttered then, not for her, not for now. Another lifetime, another world. A place he could not go now. Ever. He folded his arms across his chest and turned away deliberately from the window, making sure she would see him.

The irony of the situation was truly not lost on him. 'New all over' she had sneered, her cheeks flushed, slightly reddened by his grazing stubble. It had been almost a year ago. Angel had used Darla in much the same way. He had reached the literal end of his road to hell, and had been seeking to lose his soul. Had woken up to find it intact. And the result of that desperate coupling was what had landed him in this hopeless bloody situation.

God, what a mess. What an utter mess he had made of all their lives. You would think by now he would have learned. Something. About. Prophecies. To live and die and devour and... He mashed his fist against his forehead. He was always failing. He never meant to. But good intentions counted for nothing. Failure was the one constant in his life. He had that particular lesson drummed into him at an early age.

('Love can be a terrible thing'   
'Used to think it would swallow you whole')

Oh, he didn't want to think these things. Didn't want to feel his hands sticky with blood, see a nightmare's distortion of his friend's features as he drained his child. He didn't want to see himself crouched in terror on the floor, the little blue bundle wrapped in his father's embrace, black blood dripping slow as oil onto the waffle weave. He closed his eyes, couldn't help it, and his fingers moved unconsciously to his throat, the jagged line still raw and new. It had flowed freely; she had cut expertly, snatched the baby before his blood had time to darken the tiny blanket.

He had dropped to his knees, praying this was a dream, a nightmare, where your feet are in clay, but you find them at last. At long, long last begin to run, hands outstretched, catch up and retrieve the baby and go somewhere you know is safe. 

It had not been a dream. The baby, his best friend's son, ripped from the safety of this world and cast into a hell dimension. Dear God, what had he done. Delivered the child into the hands of his mortal enemy, without even a handful of silver to show for his betrayal.

And for that he was damned.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Darkness falling.

She felt it, in him, recognized it as an old friend, now come to fill up his heart.

('Like a little death')

She turned the key in the ignition, and fluttered a perfectly manicured nail up to touch her raw cheek. She knew it had not been her he had wanted, but still, it had been fun, pushing his buttons to see where she could get him to go. To be honest, she couldn't quite believe where he had gone.

She glanced again out of the side window. He was standing immobile, in the shadow of the curtain, his face dark. As she watched, he turned from the window and moved away.

('I wasn't thinking about you while you were here.')

She had known that, was well aware of where his thoughts lay, but it had stung. You know, maybe she had underestimated his ruthlessness, his capacity for cruelty. Definitely something to work on.

She shifted the car into gear, and patted a stray lock behind her ear. She had been serious when she had asked him how it had felt when she had cut him. Truly, she wanted to know what had gone though his mind at the moment he realized he had betrayed his friends for nothing. He had reacted swiftly, his rough hand tight about her own throat. For one gloriously terrifying moment she had actually thought he would do it.

('You terribly anxious to find out?')

His storm blue eyes had finally rested on her, and that was when she had succumbed. She desperately wanted to see this tightly repressed man out of control. Well, she had got that all right.

('Certainly know how to channel your rage, frustration and hate. So much more attractive than love.')

She had tried not to notice the self-disgust in his voice as he ordered her out of his apartment. The fact that she mattered so little to him, that his loathing was not even directed at her. Still, it was something to work on.

There had to be a hook, something to draw him in. For some it was greed, the desperate desire to crawl out of the despair of poverty. For others it was about the power. To have it all, to be the best. For her it had been a far more personal motive. Holland had seen it in her, the rage she thought she had carefully hidden. Under layers of the right clothes, the perfect face, the smart college choice, the safe, dull boyfriend. He had been undeniably adept at drawing out the darkness in her, ever so gently.

But Wesley, now his hook was simple. Written all over his tortured face. She could practically feel the guilt washing over him, his self-loathing plainly evident in the amount of alcohol he had been consuming recently. A good man, doing the wrong thing, for all the right reasons. Her only problem would be to catch him before his nihilistic slide into complete despair.

Perhaps he would see her offer as some kind of twisted penance. A kind of evil Foreign Legion. Oh, yes, that was Wesley, alright. Beau bloody Geste. Keeping that stiff upper lip, while they took his devoted loyalty and shoved it in his face. Preferably while under a pillow. 

She smiled to herself in the rear view mirror, almost managing to forget those storm cloud eyes. Those little deaths - you'd think she'd be used to them by now.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Darkness falling.

For him it had fallen with his father. The man who had cherished him, protected him from the horrors, which Quortoth had provided in full measure. Trained him to fight, forced him to be strong when he had wanted to give in, give up. His father had been constant and true, the one certainty in a world of almost unbearable horror.

When he had found her weeping by his father's lifeless body, he had known there would be vengeance. The wound on his neck simply confirmed the demon's guilt. He remembered his father's lessons; the vampire was nothing more than a monster, an abomination before the sight of God. And all the more dangerous, for this was a monster with the face of an angel. And he, Connor, had almost been taken in. There was a softness to him that belied his true nature. Those awkward, tentative offers of food, shelter, warmth and comfort had made it all too easy to forget what this creature had done.

To his father's first family. The violation and torture of Caroline, his beloved, and the murder of his first little boy. He remembered how his father's eyes would always grow wet when he spoke of his baby boy, and his little girl, Sarah. He had been forced to kill her as an act of mercy.

There would be no mercy for him.

His father had tought him well. Trained him in the art of self-defence. He had explained that a vampire must be killed by a blow directly to the heart with a wooden stake, or by separating the head from the body. As he had stared at the ruby-dark puncture wounds he had known that would not do. Would not be enough.

The vampire should suffer. He needed to pay for his sins. But even as he was exacting justice, chaining the vampire into his metal prison, the creature had spoken to him, its voice so soft and forgiving, he had almost believed it. Fallen for the lies. He wanted so much to be loved, and here was this... creature offering it unconditionally. He felt his own eyes prickle, as they had done in his youth when he had been physically hurt.

('You're the prince of lies.')

And still it had whispered...

('I love you. Never forget that. Connor, never forget that I'm your father and I love you.')

He shoved his fists into his jeans pockets, gripped his knife tightly. He walked carefully along the brightly lit city street. He hated this place, with its noise and its lights, the people who lied and cheated and spent their lives in the vain pursuit of possessions, wealth and power. He almost wished he were back in Quortoth, in the shelter of their cave, his father's strong arms supporting him, telling stories of a land far away. He had been safe there; Father made sure no harm came to him. Here he was lost, spinning in a world of chaos and despair.

Here he was in hell.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Darkness falling.

She was sitting on a dark blue and white picnic rug, dressed in a pale blue sprigged cotton summer frock, ankle socks and white sandals. Now, that was scary. He sat next to her, unpacking an old-fashioned wicker hamper.

A blue and white gingham cloth was laid out on the rug, with matching napkins placed next to the basket. He poured milk into a tall, clear plastic tumbler and handed it to her.

'Now, drink up, Faith, we want to keep those strong slayer bones of yours nice and healthy. If you're a good girl and drink up all your milk, perhaps we could find an oatmeal raisin cookie for you.'

'Yes, boss.' She decided to play along, didn't seem to be much point in fighting it. She drained the milk in one long gulp, then ran the tip of her tongue across her upper lip, tasting the telltale signs of milk moustache.

'Here you go.' He smiled, and she accepted the proffered blue-chequered napkin. 'Now I think somebody deserves a cookie.'

It was a perfectly nice oatmeal raisin cookie; the only slightly unusual thing was the phrase 'Eat Me' emblazoned across it in pale blue sugar icing. She looked at him, eyebrows arched.

'Try it.'

She bit into the soft chewy spiciness, and was shocked to discover that the leftover cookie, rather than becoming smaller, now seemed to have grown in size, while she had most definitely shrunk. She wiggled her newly tiny toes inside her too-big shoes.

'Okay boss, you wanna tell me what the hell's going on?' 

He did not reply, flashed her a full-toothed grin, his eyes briefly flickering to gold and back.

'What's she doing here?'

The whine in the voice, accompanied by a petulant foot stamp, made her look up. She had to tip her head right back, squinting into the rapidly setting sun. She stood, hands on hips, clad in a deep blue dress, white knee socks and black patent shoes. Her thick blonde hair was pulled away from her face by a wide blue ribbon, pouting lips and rosy cheeks daubed in matching sugary pink.

'Now, now Buffy. Play nicely with your sister.' The mayor admonished, hissing somewhat over the sibilants. Another stamp of her foot.

'She's not my sister. And she's not supposed to be here. I'm the slayer, and she's a bad, bad girl.'

She felt herself shrinking smaller, Buffy suddenly looming over her.

'She shouldn't be here. She doesn't deserve this!'

She was right, of course.

'You don't deserve this.' She craned her neck to see a dark version of herself, replacing Buffy. Black leather clad legs and hips, a tight blood red top, and dead eyes. 'You shouldn't be here. This is my place. I own you.'

She tossed something sharp and glittering in the air, and refracted light from the sunset blinded her momentarily. 'You are nothing.'

She blinked hard, rubbing her eyes with a tiny fist. When she opened them the image of her darker self was gone. And he was there.

Tall, back ramrod straight, dressed in best watchers' council uniform. Dark suit, blue dress shirt, old school tie. He even had a handkerchief in his breast pocket. Hair slicked back neatly, blue eyes almost hidden behind wire framed spectacles.

'Now, come along Faith. You really shouldn't be here.' Pompous watcher voice, every letter sounded out carefully, as if the non-pronunciation of a final 't' might just lead to the next apocalypse. She sneaked a glance at her boss. He was watching them, eyes flicking between them with impossible speed. Wesley reached into his jacket and pulled out a pocket watch, tutted in frustration.

'You can't lounge about here all day, there's work to be done.'

He took off his spectacles, polishing a non-existent speck of dirt from the lenses. He replaced them, and then clicked his tongue again. The glass was now coated with a thin film of blood. She recoiled in horror as he removed them calmly, folded them and popped them into his jacket pocket. He shook out his handkerchief, noticing for the first time the crimson stain in its centre.

'Really, this is most inconvenient.'

She scrabbled back from his accusatory glare. He unbuttoned his jacket and revealed the source of the stain. A rose of blood bloomed from a wound below his blue shirt, somewhere below his collarbone. Something sparkled next to her, and she slid her hand along the rug, fingers meeting a jagged edge.

'You never will.' He said it casually, folding his hands behind his back and gazing at her impassively.

(Shirt open, glasses gone, eyes bruised and dark. Handkerchief knotted deep in his throat. He makes no sound.)

'What did you say?' Her voice sounded small and terrified, like a little girl version of herself.

'You heard me, Faith.' Another watcherly look, stern disapproval tinged with exasperation at her slow uptake.

(Hands and feet bound tight, blood running freely from the mass of cuts she has inflicted.)

She was shrinking rapidly now, couldn't stop herself from getting smaller and smaller, until she was gone.

 

She woke; stared at the ceiling, her breathing becoming more regular now. Every time. Every damn dream she had, he was there. Always there, always watching. She rolled on to her side, looked out into the black sky and dreamt of a dream without him.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Darkness falling.

He reached out to switch on the antique reading lamp at the edge of his desk. A quiet click, and the room was suffused with a soft lambency from the opaque green glass shade. The gentle glow illuminated a richly panelled wall, lined with ornately carved bookshelves. He replaced the lid of his silver fountain pen, before setting it down beside his leather-bound notebook.

These things were important, when working with documents of this antiquity, this rarity. He closed the commentary carefully, and glanced down at his notes, a meticulously precise page of copper plate script. He sighed, almost inaudibly, then lifted the commentary and approached the bookcase to the left of his desk.

Long fingers trailed delicately along the spines of the volumes until he reached the books he was seeking. He removed three, revealing a small safe, which he opened with three deft twists of the combination key. Within the interior of the safe lay a scroll and another evidently ancient text, its cover lettering worn away with centuries of handling. He placed the commentary next to the other documents and then closed the safe. He whispered something under his breath, in a language that predated Latin, and the small door was no longer visible. The three books were repositioned in the shelf, and he returned to his desk. Picked up the telephone.

'Yes, Travers, it's me, ... I've completed the translation. It's as we feared. I'd hoped we would have more time... No, I understand. These things are necessary.' He tapped the green leather desktop with each finger in sequence, slowly. 'Allow me a few weeks to gather my team, authenticate the information.... Very well. I will speak to you tomorrow afternoon. Goodbye.'

He slipped the receiver back into its cradle and glanced at his discreetly expensive watch. In Los Angeles it would almost be morning. Oh, how he hated that despicable country which had so corrupted them all. With its lazy debasement of the language, its neglect of anything approaching manners or discipline. It was hard to believe that its early settlers had been actually been Puritans. He detested the mere idea of having to go there.

Travers had been adamant, though. The seer had been removed, the vampire was missing, his child was out of control, and the ex-watcher was lost and falling into darkness. An apocalyptic recipe indeed.

His job, and he was good at it, he knew, was to restore the balance. There would always be evil; it was too strong a force to be eradicated. But the forces for good, they were an altogether more complicated proposition. It was easy to stand by, allow evil to work insidiously, become complicit by default. Opposing it was a difficult, painful business. It required sacrifices, and he had already made many of those. He lifted a buff coloured folder from the drawer of his desk, opened it, and began to read.

Outside, the darkness fell.


	2. The Wager

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of 8. This chapter is set four weeks after the prologue. And now we go AU...

NOTES: Chapter 2 of 8. This chapter is set four weeks after the prologue. And now we go AU...  
The quote referred to by Lilah is from the book "Journey" by Suzanne Massie.

 

Chapter 2: The Wager

 

'I have a wager' the brave child spoke  
The fisherman laughed, though disturbed at the joke  
'You will drink what I drink but you must equal me  
And if the drink leaves me standing,  
A soul shall go free.'

 

She glanced again at the buff folder that lay open on her desk. It was unusual to see such attention to detail in this technological age of word processing. Of course, she had seen her fair share of handwritten contracts, but those were usually a century or two old, and generally signed in blood. This was a modern example of exquisitely medieval penmanship, but even a cursory inspection confirmed that it was written in the traditional ink, rather than the less conventional O positive.

'Well, Mr. Teuer, this all seems to be in order. Of course, I'll have to get our contracts department to check through the paperwork...' She smiled a fake apologetic smile and pressed a button on her phone.

The Englishman who sat on the other side of the desk seemed unconcerned. He sat very straight in the comfortable leather armchair, his rigid demeanour belying his age. She would have guessed early fifties, perhaps older, but he carried himself well. Here was a man who cared about his appearance. His shoulders were broad and squared, as if to emphasize his already impressive frame. His hair was dark, liberally peppered with grey, but still very full, and groomed immaculately.

A knock at her office door interrupted her thoughts, and a summer intern slipped into the room diffidently. She handed the folder to the lackey, who slid out as discreetly as possible.

'Mr. Teuer. Can I offer you a drink? The stereotypical cup of tea, perhaps?'

'Thank you, but no, Ms. Morgan.' He leaned back in the armchair, steepling his fingertips together precisely. She imagined there was very little this man did imprecisely.

'Teuer - that's of German extraction, surely. And yet you don't sound German?'

He seemed momentarily impressed by her linguistic deductions. 'Ah. My family came to England a couple of centuries ago. I'm afraid the accent has long been bred out of us.'

Not the genetics though. That tall, muscular build, those steel blue grey eyes. Here was an Aryan if she ever saw one.

A light on her phone flashed subtly. She opened the top drawer of her desk and lifted out the buff folder that now lay therein. She passed it to the Englishman for inspection. He quirked an eyebrow slightly, thus expressing his admiration for the speed and manner of delivery of the contract. She offered a smug but polite smile in return.

'What can I say? My firm rocks.'

He fixed her with an unexpectedly icy look. 'I was unaware of your firm's inherent structural defects.' 

She figured that was his way of saying he didn't appreciate the slang. She watched him as he read through the contract, his face impassive. Finally he set down the document, and let out his breath in a quiet sigh. She was beginning to detect the stirring of a conscience under that stony exterior. She put on her most captivating smile.

'Mr. Teuer. It's really very simple. We have access to something you want, and you possess the means to provide access to something we want. Think of it as a mutually beneficial business proposition, rather than a deal with the devil.'

He looked at her thoughtfully. 

'All the devil requires, Ms. Morgan, is acquiescence. Not struggle, not weakness. Acquiescence.'

She knew that quote, it was one Holland had whispered softly to her, the one that had broken her. 

(Evil is near. Sometimes late at night the air grows strongly clammy and cold around me. I feel it brushing me...)

She shivered faintly, and handed him her pen. 'It's a simple contract, Mr. Teuer, you've read it for yourself.'

He refused her offer of the pen, instead took one from inside his own jacket. He unscrewed the lid, and tipped a fine dusting of iridescent powder on to his palm. He then proceeded to sprinkle it over the contract.

'Ah, here it is.' He seemed quite pleased. 

'I'm sorry?' She feigned innocence.

'I fear you're going to be, Ms. Morgan. I'm afraid I won't be signing this until the magically concealed soul-binding clause is removed.'

Damn, but he was thorough.

'You can't blame a girl for trying,' She quipped, sensing that he was more amused than angry.

She pulled out another copy of the contract, which was duly submitted to the same stringent tests as the first. This time he was satisfied, and leaned over to the desk, signed his name with a flourish. She added her own signature, and removed a copy of the contract for the firm's records.  
They both stood, and Lilah was again reminded of the imposing presence of the man before her. She slid her well-manicured hand into his, and flashed her most alluring smile.

'It's a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Teuer.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

He gripped the stake in his jacket pocket firmly, and pressed himself into the shadow of a doorway opposite the dilapidated warehouse. It was always an abandoned warehouse, or rundown tenement building, or some such place. Vampires nowadays seemed to lack vision and discrimination when acquiring real estate in down town L.A. He recalled fondly the vampiric source texts he had read as a boy, with their florid descriptions of early European castles and eighteenth century English manor houses. Just once he'd like to discover a nest of vampires living in Beverly Hills luxury. He really was fed up trailing round these squalid slums.

He heard the sound of a car engine and pushed back into the darkness of the doorway. Across the road, a pickup truck pulled up and two people got out. The alley was unlit, and the figures were dressed in black, but he could tell that one was female. She moved to the front of the truck and was briefly illuminated by the glare of the headlights. He saw a face that he would remember to the grave.

Justine.

Her companion tossed her a weapon and then stepped in front of the truck. He only just managed to stifle a gasp. What the hell was Angel's son doing with that woman?

He remained undetected in the shadows, realizing their intentions when he noted the cans of petrol in the back of the truck. Obviously they had been following the same leads, although his planned solution to the problem had been considerably less ostentatious and pyrotechnic in nature. He watched as they doused the interior of the nest with petrol, as Justine flicked a match onto the puddle of petrol.

The resulting explosion sang in his ears, although he had sense enough to throw himself to the ground before the roar hit. When the initial blast had subsided, he peered through his fingers at the scene. The truck was gone; she had managed to get away before the detonation. He stood up slowly, dusting the film of debris from his dark coat. It didn't matter to him, he was getting paid for the job, and paid quite handsomely. The owner of the building had insurance, and this was a solution that would keep him happy.

The only thing that nagged at his mind was the thought that it was night. Vampires were, understandably, nocturnal feeders...

Rather pissed off, newly homeless nocturnal feeders, it would seem, by the look on their undead faces...

He sprang to his feet, assessing the threat swiftly. Three vamps, in full game face, had him trapped in the alleyway. He slid his hand into his jacket, and pulled out his crossbow, aiming it at the vamp in closest proximity to him. The poor creature had clearly not been expecting this, he was used to meals that squealed rather than kicked. He looked down in shock at the wooden stake protruding from his chest, before crumbling dejectedly into dust.

His actions had, unsurprisingly, rather aggravated the situation. The remaining vamps did not seem overly terrified by him; in fact, they were both bearing down on him with alarming haste.

'Shit, he killed Kenny!' 

The vamp that reached him first had been made in the eighties, if his tragic fashion choice was anything to go by. He sported a black 'Frankie Says...' T-shirt and a chunk of hair that hung over one eye, New Romantic style. His allegiance to the hairstyle of the era was currently the only thing working in Wesley's favour; the vamp had to keep pausing during the fight to sweep the quiff out of his eye. Wes swung again with his stake, and earned himself a knee in the gut.

'I know someone who could recommend a good brand of hair gel,' He hissed, doubling over in pain, waiting for the finishing blow. 

It came, but not to him. There was a sudden flash of steel above him, as the vampire and his tragically coiffured head parted company. He sucked in a swift breath, and struggled to his feet, in time to see his saviour caught in the clutches of the third vampire. The creature held him across its chest, preventing any attack by stake or crossbow. Wes pulled out his gun and pointed it at the vampire's head.

'Dude, you're dumber than you look. You can't kill me with that.' 

Wes pressed his finger to the trigger, and a jet of holy water hit the last vamp square in the eye. The unholy shrieking of the creature was ended instantly, as his newly freed captive shoved his stake home with unexpected force.

They spent a few moments breathing heavily, neither speaking. Then Wesley stood up straight and met the other's eyes.

'Thank you, Connor.'

He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, reciprocal gratitude, perhaps, or feigned indifference. Certainly not a hand around his throat, shoving him against the alley wall, almost strangling him. He was his father's son, alright, react first and ask questions later.

'How do you know my...that name?' His voice low, the accent held a trace of something familiar. He did not answer, could not, not with that surprisingly strong hand almost cutting off his air supply. And then abruptly it was gone. He sucked in a lungful of air. The boy was staring at his neck in wonder.

'Your scar. Did you come by it battle?' He seemed captivated.

'No, not exactly.' A badge of dishonour he would wear all his life, his branding as a traitor. 'Your friend, Justine, gave it to me.'

The dark eyes widened in astonishment. 'You're him. You're the one. The one they won't talk about. You're the one who saved me. Wesley.'

It hurt. He had known that they had banished him, that he was nothing, meant nothing to them now. And yet he was still surprised how much it hurt to hear it again. As if Connor had reached up and ripped a jagged blade across his damaged throat.

'My father told me about you.'

He was astonished that Angel had even mentioned his name to the boy. It took him a moment to realize that Connor was not talking about Angel. He meant Holtz.

'He said you were a good man.' The boy spoke with a quiet certainty, as if these things could not be disputed. As if things were black or white.

'Connor, where's Angel? Does he know you've been out patrolling with Justine?'

For the first time he saw uncertainty in the boy, his eyes dropped, and he twisted his booted toe in the dirt. 

'He doesn't know... I'm here.' He lifted his face again, dark eyes pleading. 'You won't tell him, right?'

'Connor, I assure you I'm in no position to tell Angel anything. Your secret is quite safe with me.' 

He paused, unsure what to say. After all, it was none of his business if Angel's son wanted to risk life and limb on death or glory missions with that homicidal bitch. Only that wasn't strictly true. Just a couple of months ago, it had been so much his business that he had almost lost his life trying to protect this boy. 

'Justine isn't as trustworthy as you might think. She has some... issues with your fath... I mean Angel.'

He suspected Connor had guessed as much, from the guilty look in his eyes.   
'I know she has done things which are wrong. But she fights evil, tries to protect the innocent.' He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself. 'I can't talk to them. They just don't understand.'

He raised his eyes to Wesley's face, and he recognized the loneliness in the boy. Maybe that was the reason he dug into his pocket and produced a small white card. He scrawled his address and 'phone number on it, and handed it to Connor.

'If you want to talk, you can find me at this address most evenings. Look, it's probably best if you don't tell Angel you've seen me. I've grown quite attached to my throat.' He smiled encouragingly at the forlorn looking child. 'Things will get better, Connor, they always do.' He lied.

Connor nodded uncertainly, then turned to go, lifting his hand in a half wave.

Wesley waved back, fully expecting never to see the boy again.

 

*~*~*~*

 

She eyed the man opposite her warily. He was good looking in that glaringly obvious way. Athletic build, clear complexion, he put her in mind of Buffy's soldier boy squeeze... She cut off that train of thought promptly, it reminded her altogether too much of the nightmares she'd been having recently.

He was in his late twenties, clearly spending most of his free time at the gym, judging by the muscles that rippled discreetly under his extremely well cut suit. His hair was perfect, not a strand out of place, but she could see the early signs of recession at his temples, and smiled spitefully. The guy would be bald before he hit forty.

He paused in his monologue, suddenly sensing that her attention had wandered during his lecture.

'Faith, are you listening to me?'  
She rolled her eyes. 'Yeah, yeah, Wolfram and Hart, blah - di - blah, good behaviour, get out of jail free card...'

He pursed his lips. Not a good look for him, she thought, made him look like somebody's scandalized maiden aunt.

'It would behove you to pay attention when I am talking' He said snippily.

She narrowed her eyes. 'Lee Mercer still working at your firm?' she inquired casually.

He looked blank. 'I'm not aware of the name, and I fail to see what this has got to do with the present situation.' 

She drummed her fingers lightly on the table. 'Nah, guess he was before your time. He was the last guy who told me what it would behove me to do. Needed some pretty extensive reconstructive facial surgery, if I remember rightly.'

He paled visible, glanced over at the guard in the corner of the room. She poked her finger lazily into a cigarette scar on the Formica table.

'Could snap your neck before he could lift a finger.' She said nonchalantly, enjoying the look of raw panic in his eyes. There was no way for him to know she was only playing.

'Tell me, Mr. Mitchell,' She sat straighter in her chair, clasping her hands in mock seriousness.  
'How come they sent you? Thought it would have been the other two, the ones who hired me before.'

He smiled superciliously, had undoubtedly done his homework. 'You mean Lindsey McDonald?'

Faith nodded, recalling those cute blue eyes with fondness.

'I'm afraid Mr. McDonald is no longer with the firm. He had a crisis... of conscience.'

That sounded unpleasantly like a euphemism for something more permanent than firing.

'He's dead?'

'Well, no. Mr. McDonald took some... insurance with him when he left. I believe he's out West somewhere.'

She cracked a broad grin. Hell, she had liked that lawyer. Nice to hear he had a conscience tucked under all the Armani. Plus a wicked sense of self-preservation. Reminded her of a cowboy she once...well.

'What about the lady, the one who looked so good in green? She have a conscience crisis too?'

His eyes widened, and he actually looked a little scared. 'Ms. Morgan. She's my boss. Head of Special Projects.'

Faith let out a low whistle. 'So, no glass ceiling at Wolfram and Hart, then. And she needs me.'

The self-confident smirk returned. 'There is no needing involved. My company have simply been working on your behalf, attempting to address a miscarriage of justice.'

'Yeah, right. And the minute I'm sprung, your firm's going to come running, looking for me to do some dirty work.'

'I'm shocked that you would suggest such a thing. Wolfram and Hart would never be involved in any dealings of an illegal nature.' She wondered how he could say that without his nose growing. 'I assure you, once you are no longer incarcerated, you will owe our firm nothing. You will be a free agent'

'Do I have a choice?' she asked quietly.

He gave her a pitying look, as if he couldn't believe she would rather stay in jail than accept his offer.

'To be honest, no. This is a done deal. You're getting paroled whether you like it or not.' He stood up, lifting his briefcase and flashing his unnaturally perfect teeth at her. She fought the urge to undo all the orthodontist's good work.

'So when can I get out of the joint?'

'The paperwork is already through. This meeting was just a formality. You'll be released first thing tomorrow.' He turned crisply on his heel, and then paused at the door. 'Good luck, Faith.'

She sighed heavily, let her shoulders slump a little. She was going to need all the luck she could get.

 

*~*~*~*

 

(The next evening)

 

She rolled over, felt the cool cotton sheet under her warmed body. He rolled onto his back, breathing heavily. She liked this part. Watching him. Seeing the internal struggle as he tried to reconcile his devotion to the forces of right with his current behaviour. The conflicting emotions within him sent him spiralling into dark, dangerous moods, which always managed to turn her on. The self-disgust he felt afterwards simply completed the rather delightful vicious circle.

She was no longer sure if she wanted him to join the firm. Of course, she had her instructions, but this was just such fun. She was enjoying the battle so much more than she had ever imagined she would. Perhaps all that would change if he became the good little company boy. No, she liked this quality of menace about him, didn't want to lose it.

She leaned over and poked him between his ribs, aiming her finger deliberately at the purpling bruise over his kidney.

'Out fighting the good fight, last night?' Her tone gently mocking him.

He slapped her hand away, hard enough to make her hiss. 'Shut up, Lilah.' Low voice. Warning voice. Don't push it Lilah voice. Her favourite.

'Now, now, Wesley, didn't your daddy teach you never to hit a lady?' She purred, knowing she was getting to him. She had found out quite recently that mentioning his father was a good way to piss him off.

He grabbed her hand and squeezed very hard, until she gave a tiny whimper. Immediately he let go, and gave her that look, the slightly raised eyebrow, suddenly aware that she was playing him.

'Hm. I guess this is a side to your personality Angel and his playmates don't get to see.' Pause for effect. 'Oh, except when you fall under the influence of some nasty misogynistic homicidal bastard.'

He was onto her now, put one hand under his head and viewed her with an amused half smile.

'I hear he helped Mr. Park rearrange your face. Such a pretty face.' He mused, pinching her cheek delicately between his thumb and forefinger. 'Such a shame to spoil it.'

'Oh please, enough with the idle threats. You know I don't scare that easy.' She shifted onto her side, moved a little closer to his lean frame. 'It's weird though. I admit I was trying to reach your dark side. I just never guessed you had so much in you.'

'Keep digging, Lilah.'

She took it as an invitation.

'Was it Billy, I wonder. Did he change you?' She pretended to think. 'No, he just brought it out. I think the darkness was already there.'

He lifted his watch. 'Are you almost finished? Only we're almost past the hour and I don't want to have to pay extra for the therapy.'

'The analysis is free.' She was a bit annoyed that he had thrown her out of her stride. 

'That dark place inside you. He opened it.'

Now she was getting somewhere. He blinked quickly, and she thought she saw a little shudder run through him.

'Maybe it was Faith.'

Direct hit. He scowled furiously and she reached over to trail a fingernail across his collarbone, following the jagged scar line.

'I know you like the bad girls, Wes. Did you like it when she made you scream...' 

Damn. She had gone too far. He was out of bed, pulling on his shorts roughly. He lifted his clothes, the half bottle of Black Bush, and stomped off into the living area. She sighed softly. That was it for tonight, then. 

She slipped her silk blouse over bare shoulders; wriggled her hips into her merino wool skirt. Almost forgot her silk underwear. She lifted it, but did not bother to replace the garments. Let him see what he was missing.

She was already beside the couch when there was a knock at the apartment door. Wes threw her a disgusted look and moved to open it. She stared coolly at the visitor, then slipped past, trailing her bra and panties languidly in her hand. She met Wesley's mortified gaze with a smug little smile.

'It's a business doing pleasure with you, Mr. Pryce.'


	3. The Child with his Father's Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of 8. This chapter contains dialogue from "Five by Five"

NOTES: Chapter 3 of 8. This chapter contains dialogue from "Five by Five"

Chapter 3: The Child with his Father's Eyes

 

Where is the fisherman, where is the goat?  
Where is the keeper in his carrion coat?  
Eclipse on the moon when the dark bird flies  
Where is the child with his father's eyes?

 

He stood in the doorway, couldn't quite shake the feeling that he had arrived in the middle of something slightly... sordid. The woman's voice had held a mocking quality, and the rather rumpled Englishman who stood before him looked extremely angry. He shuffled his feet a little, and hunched his shoulders.

'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt your...' He was unsure of the correct word to describe this situation. 'I should go.'

Immediately Wesley's temper seemed to evaporate, the scowl vanished.

'No, Connor, it's I who should apologize.' He stood back from the door. 'Please, come in.'

Connor stepped into his apartment. It was incredibly neat; every object in the room appeared to have a correct and proper place. And it reminded him somewhat of the office back at the hotel. Then he realized why.

'It used to be your office.'

The older man looked up from his tidying. 'I'm sorry?'

'It's nothing.' He glanced at the bottle and two empty glass tumblers in Wesley's hands. 'That's whisky, isn't it?'

The Englishman smiled wryly. 'How old are you now, Connor?'

He drew himself to his full height. 'I'm seventeen.'

A soft sigh escaped his lips. 'Seventeen lost years.' Connor thought he heard him whisper. Then - 'What do you know about whisky?'

'It's a drink people in this dimension use to relax. My father told me about it.' Remembering the man's previous confusion, he added. 'Holtz, I mean.'

Wesley carried the glasses over to a small kitchen area and began to rinse them in hot water.

'I'm surprised. I imagined Holtz... your father, to be a man of abstinence.'

Connor shook his head, fiercely proud. 'Father told me about all the good things in his world. We would sit down every night, before sleep, and he would tell me stories about the place he had come from. His family, his home, the county where he lived' 

He could feel himself tearing up even speaking of his father, and he was glad that Wesley was busy with the electronic device that Fred always used to heat up inedible snack foods. He regained his composure, as the Englishman brought over two mugs of a steaming, oatmeal coloured brew. He eyed them nervously.

'Sit down, Connor.'

He obeyed, took the mug which was offered. He sipped at it cautiously, and was pleasantly rewarded with a warm, milky sweet sensation.

'What is this?' He couldn't help the broad grin that spread across his face.

'It's another drink people in this dimension use to relax. A rather more age appropriate one, in your case. It's called Ovaltine.'

He looked blankly at him, so Wesley continued. 'A bedtime drink, made from milk, malt and chocolate. I used to have it at my aunt's home...' He spoke pensively, as if he had forgotten that Connor was there. He looked up and smiled wistfully, his blue eyes full of unexplained sadness. 'It's supposed to be soothing.'

He sat down in the armchair opposite, and stretched out his long legs. Connor couldn't help noticing his loosely buttoned shirt, remembering the woman had been similarly dishevelled.

'That woman, is she your... girlfriend?'

The Englishman's laugh was entirely without mirth.

'No. She is most definitely not what one would call a girlfriend. Lilah is...' He stopped, half smiled to himself. 'You know, I'm not actually sure what one would call Lilah. Any of the things I can think of would be unrepeatable to your tender ears.'

He meant swear words. It was obvious that Wesley disliked the woman intensely, and yet they had clearly been in bed together. He found the whole thing puzzling.

'Then you don't love her?'

Wesley almost choked on his drink.

'No, Connor, I don't love her.'

'But when I arrived you and she had been...' Wesley face was growing red, so he stopped, afraid he had angered the man. But when he spoke again, he did not sound angry, his voice was tender.

'People don't always do things for the right reasons, Connor. This world is very different from Quortoth.' He paused, rubbing his hand over the bridge of his nose. 'Love and hate aren't as far apart as you might think.'

'Is she a bad person, then, this Lilah?' He knew he should stop asking these questions; they made him sound like a foolish child.

But Wesley did not seem particularly irritated by them. 

'Let me try and explain it.' He said patiently. 'Remember we talked about Justine. I told you she couldn't be trusted?' Connor nodded, his attention wholly focused on the Englishman's soft voice. 

'You told me she was fighting evil, that she was simply protecting the innocent.'

He was beginning to understand. 

'But she did things that were wrong.' His eyes flicked to the other man's scarred throat. 'She attacked you.'

Wesley nodded solemnly; encouraging him to make the connections, figure it out. 

'But she thought she was doing it for the right reasons.' He was beginning to grasp the concept. 

Again the Englishman nodded, guiding him gently. 

'But that still doesn't make it right. You see, Connor, she made choices. Some good and some...' He paused, touched the line at his throat. 'Not so good. We all do. That doesn't make her a bad person, much as it pains me to admit it. This world is not just good and evil, black and white.'

He was well aware of that already.

'But you're a good man. Father said so.' He knew he sounded like a stubborn child.

'Perhaps he truly believed that. But I am not the saint your father brought you up to believe in. Just as Lilah is not evil incarnate.'

It was difficult to hear him belittle himself so.

'You were trying to save me.' 

Wesley drew back, as if he had slapped him across the face.

'But I failed, Connor. You've spent your life in a hell dimension - a fate I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy, let alone my best friend's son. I made a terrible mistake.'

He spoke quietly, but Connor could sense the emotion that lay behind his words. 

'It wasn't so bad. I had my father to look after me. And things made sense there.' He smiled encouragingly. 'Black and white, like you said.' He dropped his eyes, then. 'Things here are just too...complicated.'

It wasn't exactly a lie.

Wesley nodded. 'You miss him. Your father.'

He bent his head, overwhelmed by the feelings of grief and longing. Managed a small nod. 

'Tell me about him. If you want.' The gentle acceptance in the man's tone was almost more than he could bear.

And so he told him. Of the man who had been everything to him; his father, his guide, his protector, and his friend. Things he had told no one else in this awful world, because they hadn't wanted to hear. The others had wanted him to forget his father, and his home. Get down on his knees and be eternally grateful that he was no longer stuck in Quortoth. And here was a man who was willing to listen, who would at least give him a chance to talk.

'You come from the same country as my father?'

'Yes. I come from England.' Wesley answered.

'He used to tell me about his home. York. Do you know the place?'

The older man smiled widely. 'My aunt and uncle lived just outside York. We often visited in the school holidays. I loved that part of the country.'

'Could you tell me about it?' He pleaded softly, and the Englishman obliged.

'Oh, the city has changed greatly since your father's day.' He continued on, and Connor began to feel pleasantly drowsy, imagining himself safe and warm, as when his father had told him his bedtime stories.

He was drifting into sleep, when somewhere in the distance he heard the telephone ring.

'Wyndam-Pryce here. Oh. Fred. This is unexpected. What can I do for you?'  
Connor's eyes jolted open.

 

*~*~*~*

 

'Sir, I hope your meeting wasn't too dreadful' 

The younger man was uncomfortable, he knew, these circumstances were unusual, to put it mildly. He looked more closely at the man, and a name clicked in the back of his mind.

'Quite acceptable, Hewitt.' 

It really had not been so dreadful. Ms. Lilah Morgan had certainly lived up to her name; he had been tempted to compliment her on it. A woman of many and varied charms, most of them treacherous and deadly. A woman who could get the job done. He respected that kind of dedication to duty, no matter which side she fought on.

He realized that the man was still standing in the doorway.

'Was there something else you wanted, Hewitt?'

The younger watcher shuffled his feet, infuriatingly indecisive.

'Come on, man, out with it!' He snapped.

'It's just... well, this working with Wolfram and Hart. They represent everything we've always opposed.'

He was still so young. He guessed late twenties, still shiny from the Watcher Academy. Filled with naïve zeal, and foolish, immature ideals about the nature of good and evil. He wondered if they taught any classical philosophy at all nowadays.

'You have, one assumes, studied Plato's Protagoras?

He could almost hear the gears shifting in the other's brain, trying to access some long forgotten but suddenly vitally important piece of information.

'I think, um, we read it in my first year' He dropped his gaze, shamefaced. 'Platonic Latin was never my strong suit.'

'No, I imagine not. Perhaps I should refresh your memory.' He settled himself in the armchair; leaned over to the adjacent table and opened a dark cherry wood cigar box, inlaid with strips of ebony and walnut. He chose one, lit it, using an intricately carved antique silver lighter. He puffed at the cigar contentedly, enjoying the power he had over the other man, watching him squirm.

'To prefer evil to good is not in human nature, and when a man is compelled to chose one of two evils, no one will choose the greater when he might have the less.' 

A lazy curl of cigar smoke drifted delicately upward.

'To put it more simply, needs must when the devil drives.' He raised an eyebrow. 'I hope that makes our position a little clearer.'

The man nodded nervously, unwilling to pursue the matter any further. As it should be. He did not appreciate being questioned on these matters. The harsh trill of the telephone interrupted his thoughts.

'Teuer here. Ah, Ms. Morgan, I was just thinking of you...' He paused, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line. 'Already? I have to say I'm impressed... Of course. I'm a man of my word.' Another pause. 'Very well. I'll contact you to let you know when you can proceed. Good day to you, Ms. Morgan.'

He replaced the receiver thoughtfully, called Hewitt back into the room.

'Sir?'

'I presume the necessary arrangements have been made?'

Hewitt wavered visibly. 'Almost. The negotiations were delicate... But everything will be in place by nightfall.'

'See that it is. I do not like to be disappointed.' He left the threat unspoken; the terrified look on the young man's face was all the assurance he needed.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He put the 'phone down, looked hard at the boy who sat opposite him. Only a few minutes ago, he had been dozing off, lulled into sleep by descriptions of Holtz's hometown. Now, he was wide-awake, staring miserably at the floor, his palms nervously tracing the worn denim of his jeans.

Angel was missing. Cordelia, too. For a month now.

He wanted to be angrier that it had taken Fred a month to call and tell him, but if he was honest, it didn't come as much of a surprise. They only contacted him now when they were desperate, needed his help only as a last resort. But this was not the time for wallowing in self-pity and hurt feelings. What concerned him more was the fact that Connor had neglected to mention that Angel was missing, and was now sitting across the room from him, looking as guilty as hell.

It was blatantly obvious that the boy was hiding something; Wes knew he would not have to dig far before he cracked. 

'That was Fred.'

No answer, Connor remained very still, his eyes cast down in shame.

'She tells me that Angel and Cordelia are missing.'

His head jerked up. 'I didn't do anything... to her...' He closed his mouth too late, suddenly aware of what he had said.

This kid would not be good at lying, he guessed. He imagined that Holtz would have taught him the Old Testament values of right and wrong pretty thoroughly. Knew those lessons too well himself.

'Do you know what happened to Angel?' The boy did not answer. 'Connor?' he raised his voice, just enough.

'No.' There was a sullen edge to his tone.

'You know that lying is wrong, don't you? I'm sure your father told you that.' It was cruel, he knew, to use these tactics, but he had to find out what had happened to his friends. Okay, former friends. He repeated the question; his voice quiet, but firm.

'Do you know what happened to Angel?'

A whisper, so low he almost didn't catch it.

'He's the prince of lies.'

His own voice soft now. 'That's not what I asked, Connor.'

He looked up at Wesley; his eyes, so dark, reminding him of painfully of his father's, his real father's. Full of anguish and despair. As Angel's had been at their last meeting.

'Tell me what happened.'

Connor told him. Quietly. His voice full of shame. He did not interrupt, simply allowed him to make his confession. When he had finished, Connor looked up, met his eyes fearfully, expecting anger, blame, punishment.

(Always tell the truth, Wesley. I know when you are lying. Things will be much worse for you if you lie to me...)

'She lied to you. Angel would never have killed your father. He loved you too much to do that.'

Connor dropped his head low, his hair hanging over his eyes. Wes felt an ache in his heart, remembering the warmth of a small blue bundle against his chest, hearing the baby's contented gurgle. This was his fault. He should never have let him be taken. Connor was lost, and he was to blame.

'Aren't you angry?' Connor rubbed his fists across his eyes fiercely.

'No.'

He didn't want to admit to Connor that somewhere, deep down, some part of him felt that Angel deserved this. The part of him that had struggled against a pillow in his face. The part of him that liked the look on Lilah's face when one of his barbs struck home. The part of him that had briefly considered the Council's offer of reinstatement in return for Faith. The secret dark part of him that he hated.

The boy was looking at him expectantly, waiting for him to speak. 

'What about Cordelia?' He watched him closely this time.

'I swear I didn't touch her. She was on her way to meet him the night that I...' his voice tailed off, head dropped.

'And you didn't see her?' He asked sternly.

Connor shook his head dumbly, his eyes still hidden behind his fringe.

'Look at me when you answer, boy.' Hated the cold familiarity of those words.

Connor raised his head and looked at him. ' I didn't see her, I swear.'

His eyes shone with pure clear innocence. He obviously had nothing to do with Cordy's disappearance.

'Wesley?' Connor whispered softly, his tone fearful.

'It's okay, I'm not angry. I just had to know you were telling the truth.'

He stood up, fetched his worn leather jacket from the hall cupboard.

'Where are you going?' Connor's voice rose in panic. 'You're not going to tell them? Please, Wesley. They'll kill me.'

'Relax. I won't tell them.' Not yet, anyway. There were more pressing matters that needed attention. ' I want you to promise me something.'

The boy looked up. 'Stay here while I'm out. I won't be gone long, and you'll be safe here. Okay?'

'Okay.' He sounded so forlorn.

'We'll sort this out, Connor. I promise you.' 

He would not fail him again.

 

*~*~*~*

 

She flipped a lock of chestnut hair back from her face. Caught a glimpse of herself in the window of a parked car and stopped dead. It was like seeing a ghost. The once skintight leather pants were loose around her waist, the dark red top accentuating her pale skin. Like the dream version of herself. But she was not that girl any more. He had pulled her back from the edge of that precipice.

As she had walked out of jail this morning, her first thought had been Angel. He would be able to help her, figure out why the hell the lawyers had gotten her out. But she hadn't seen him in a while. His visits to her, though welcome, had never been regular, and lately not at all. She thought back to the last time.

He had told her of his visit to another dimension, and she hadn't been sure if he was tripping on some pharmaceutically enhanced AB neg. Had been even more convinced of it when he told her that Wesley was now the boss at Angel Investigations. And Cordelia, a princess. She had giggled insanely at that. Like she needed to have that particular delusion confirmed.

He had told her that Buffy was gone. She had caught a breath at that, hitched tight in her throat. Typical B, sacrificing herself for little sis, for love, family, friends, all the things that Faith had cut out of her heart. Had closed down until he had reached her.

She had been numb until that moment in the alley, when he had held her in the rain. She smiled sadly to herself. Well, maybe not numb. Not in that room above the alley.

There had been a moment, a heartbeat, when she had ungagged him.

 

'I was your watcher, Faith. I know the real you. Even if you kill me, there's just one thing I want you to remember.'

'What's that, love?' His eyes met hers, burned with a blue-flamed intensity. And she had wanted desperately for him to see it. See past the living dead girl.

('I believe in my heart that you are not a bad person.')

But his answer had brought the darkness, and she had hurt him, more than she had meant to.

 

No, she had not been numb.

She dumped her duffel bag onto the pavement and searched through the front pocket until she found the scrap of paper she was looking for, the address she had scrawled almost three years ago - 212 Pearson Arms.

 

*~*~*~*

 

She knocked the door carefully. No answer.

This time a little harder. "Cordelia. You in?'

This was dumb. Queen C. probably didn't even live here any more. She slung her duffel bag back onto her shoulder and turned to leave. 

The door opened.

'Hey, Cordy, I guess I should explain...' 

There was no one there.

A memory clicked in the back of her mind.

 

'Phantom Dennis! Let us in. It's alright, it's only Wesley!'

'Dennis your ghost, I presume?'

'Yes. He's jealous. Don't worry, hell will freeze over before I have sex with him!'

 

Okay, the ghost butler was letting her in.

'Thanks... Dennis, right?'

She stepped over the threshold. The apartment looked much as she remembered it. Very neat and tidy. She moved towards the kitchen, and noticed a photograph, face up, on the dining table, as if someone had been studying it. It was a picture of the three of them, Angel, Cordelia and Wesley. They looked happy. 

She suddenly realized that she was hadn't eaten since this morning, moved away from the picture quickly. Into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. It was empty. Where the hell was Cordelia? She opened the freezer compartment and picked out a tub of Ben and Jerry's, still in its store bag.

'Dennis, she wouldn't mind, would she?' 

It had been so long since she had eaten this stuff.

The drawer next to her hip opened magically, and a spoon hovered up to her hand in answer.

'Thanks'

She dug the spoon deep into the rich fudge-swirled cream and licked it delicately, closing her eyes in ecstasy.

Then froze, as she felt the tip of something sharp in the small of her back.


	4. Sailing to the Island of Souls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 of 8. As you will see, this chapter is heavily influenced by 'Deep Down' - kudos to Steve DeKnight for a stunning piece of television. Lines of dialogue from 'Five by Five'

NOTES: Chapter 4 of 8. As you will see, this chapter is heavily influenced by 'Deep Down' - kudos to Steve DeKnight for a stunning piece of television. Lines of dialogue from 'Five by Five'

 

Chapter 4: Sailing to the Island of Souls

 

He dreamed of a ship on the sea  
It would carry his father and he   
To a place they would never be found  
To a place far away from this town  
A Newcastle ship without coals   
They would sail to the island of souls

 

'Turn round, and keep your hands where I can see them.'

The sharp point of whatever it was grazed her skin and she reacted automatically, her foot jerked up and connected gratifyingly hard with bone. There was a sharp hiss, and the weapon was briefly removed from her back.  
She took advantage of the moment and swung round, balancing on the balls of her feet, ready to defend herself. Her attacker had already recovered the crossbow and had it aimed at her heart.

He was dressed dark, clothes chosen for ease of movement, expecting a fight. She registered a shock of dark hair, a strong beard shadow, and unexpectedly blue eyes that usually remained hidden behind...

'Wesley!'

He lowered his arm fractionally when she spoke. 'Good God... Faith?'

'Jeez, Wes, is that you?

But the accent had confirmed it, as well as that look, head cocked slightly to one side, the corners of his mouth turned down disapprovingly. She remembered that look from Sunnydale, more recently and painfully from her last visit to this apartment. The grim irony of their current circumstances was not lost on her.

 

'Faith... listen to me. It's not too late.

'For cappuccino, 'cos it just keeps me up.'

'It's not too late to let me help you.'

 

No, she didn't think he would be offering his help any time soon. She noticed that the weapon was still trained on her heart, and the hand that held it was very steady.

'Okay.' She said calmly. 'Okay. On parole, Wes. Not escaped homicidal ex-slayer out for revenge.' 

She kept her hands loose by her sides, willing herself to relax; despite the fact that every nerve of her body was rigid with tension. He hesitated for a long moment, then lowered the cross bow and touched his shoulder gingerly.

'Well, perhaps not homicidal. But the revenge part...'

'Aw, come on. I didn't hit you that hard.'

He rolled his shoulder back in its socket and sucked a breath though gritted teeth.

'I suppose I've had worse.'

Looking at him properly now, she had to agree with his assessment. He looked - the only word that she could think of was - damaged. This was not the Wesley she remembered from Sunnydale. Not even from the last time they had met. The five o'clock shadow was heavy, and only just failed to hide a new and fairly wicked-looking scar that reached from the side of his jaw up to his ear. But that was not what made her think of that word, although this was clearly the physical cause of the damage.

His eyes. Even when she had tortured him, his eyes had never lost their intensity. An intensity that haunted her nightmares. Sometimes she had only to close her own eyes, and his were there, burning into her, seeing a part of herself she needed to keep hidden. It made her stomach light to look into those eyes now. As if someone had reached inside and switched the light off. God, what the hell had happened to him?

'Where's Queen C.?' 

'I was hoping you would be able to shed some light on that.'

This was not good. The cheerleader was missing and this dark mirrorverse Wes thought she was mixed up in it. Those damn lawyers had set her up.

Wesley was casually checking his crossbow.

'Watch where you 're pointing that thing. Wouldn't want it to go off prematurely, would we?' 

'Don't flatter yourself, Faith.' He sneered contemptuously.

Well, hell. Prissy watcher boy had gotten himself an attitude to match his mean scar. She raised her palms in mock defeat.

'Okay, Wes. Look, I only just got here. Ask the ghost.'

In answer to her plea, the spoon rose off the counter and dived into the tub of ice cream.

'Oh, come on, Dennis, I hardly touched it!'

'So. You happened to be passing and called in for ice cream. Because you and Cordelia are such good friends.' 

She had forgotten how sarcastic he could be. 

'I didn't know where else to go.' She hated the way that sounded, a pathetic attempt at gaining sympathy. 'I knew your office blew up, he told me that. He said something about a hotel, but I couldn't find it listed. I still had the address from before...'

She stopped, didn't really want to get into that particular conversation right now. He was watching her, his lack of glasses only emphasizing the horrible sense of déjà vu.

'When were you paroled?' All business. He obviously didn't want to get into it either.

'This morning.'

He relaxed visibly. 'Oh. She's been missing for a while.'

'Where's Soul Boy? Out looking for her?'

He gave her a strange guarded look, and she got the distinct feeling that he was hiding something.

'He's missing, too.'

'You lost them both? Kind of careless, don't you think?' But her bravado was unconvincing.

'What kind of boss are you, anyway?'

'I'm not' He growled, his voice low.

'Not what?'

'The boss.'

Okay. She knew it. The vamp had been tripping out. 'Angel said you were in charge...'

'I was. I'm not anymore.' His voice was tight, inviting no further comment.

She put her hand back on to the counter and steadied herself. It was like walking into a movie halfway through, when everyone else knew the plot, and what was about to happen. Whereas she only had a half-assed idea who the main characters were. Something had happened between Angel and Wesley, that much was clear.

'Need any help?'

'I beg your pardon?' There was a sneer in his voice that just pissed her off.

'No need to beg, Wes.' That was nasty, but she hated that snippety know-it-all attitude. 'Look, I've been sprung by Evil Incorporated, and my guess is they're not doing it out of the kindness of their hearts. I just thought if we worked together, maybe we could...'

He interrupted her. 'Wolfram and Hart had you paroled?'

'Nice to see you're listening.'

He threw her a scathing look. 'You do realize that you're in serious trouble?'

'When am I not?'

She shrugged her shoulders defiantly, and he cracked a grin.

'Come on.'

'Where're we going?'

'Home. There's someone you need to meet.'

 

*~*~*~*

He turned the engine off and dismounted. Didn't wait for her. There hadn't been any pleasantries, of course. Just a derisive snort of laughter from her when she saw the bike.

'I assume you've ridden pillion before.' He had growled, aiming the helmet at her gut intentionally.

And she had sworn softly and creatively, before throwing a long leg over the seat behind him.

'Don't judge a person by their appearance, Wes.' 

'Yes. Because you would never do that.' 

He had kicked the Dog into life and pulled away from the kerb fast, forcing her to grab him hard around the waist, to prevent being thrown off.

Bloody Hell. 

What was he doing? This was Faith. The woman who had bound and gagged him. Had beaten him. Cut him. Burned him. For fun. Simply to piss Angel off. 

Angel had been to see her, he knew that. They had talked about it, calmly, rationally. Before Darla, before Connor, before... everything that had happened. Wes had agreed that she would need guidance. And Angel was certainly best qualified to understand her situation. And while they had talked, he had imagined her tied to a chair, a sliver of glass in his own hand, and had felt the warmth of justified hate bubble up and fill his veins. He knew he had not forgiven her for what she had done to him.

So what the hell was he doing with her now? Was this some big karmic joke, as Cordy would put it? You don't get forgiven till you learn to forgive. He mouthed a sarcastic thank you to the Powers that Be. Just what he needed. An object lesson in humility. 

He opened the door of the apartment, and strode in without waiting for her. He was relieved to find that Connor had kept his promise, was still sitting on the couch, congenitally brooding.

The dark head snapped up, eyes wary, narrowing in fear when he registered Faith.

'Faith, this is Connor. He is Angel and Darla's son. I kidnapped him as a baby to protect him from a prophecy concerning his death at the hands of his father. I was tricked by Angel's enemies, had my throat cut, and Connor was sent to a hell dimension. While recovering in hospital, Angel came to visit. He pointed out the error of my ways using the tried and tested method of smothering. Connor recently returned from said hell dimension, was tricked into believing that Angel had killed the man he called father, and proceeded to lock Angel in a cage at the bottom of the ocean.

A brief pause, long enough for him to draw breath, but not long enough to allow her to react verbally.

'Connor, this is Faith. She is a slayer. I was sent to be her watcher in Sunnydale. She accidentally killed an innocent bystander, lied about it, and I overreacted idiotically. She ended up working for the local mayor, who also happened to be a hundred year old sixty-foot snake demon. She poisoned Angel, and was put into an eight-month coma by Buffy. When she awoke, she came to L.A. after a body swap with Buffy, joined forces with Wolfram and Hart and accepted a contract to kill Angel. Which for some reason involved torturing me. Rather gleefully, if I remember rightly. However, I digress. Angel pointed out the error of her ways with the tried and tested method of compassion and jelly donuts. Infinitely more preferable to smothering, I should imagine. She apparently realized those erring ways, and was subsequently incarcerated, until this morning, when she was unexpectedly paroled by the aforementioned law firm. 

He halted briefly, realizing that he was now in the presence of the two people who represented his greatest failures. To date.

'So. Questions? Comments? Anyone?'

Unsurprisingly, neither of them spoke. 

'Well, if we're all up to speed, let's get on with it.'

'What the hell are you talking about, Wes?' Faith finally managed to speak.

'Rescuing that stupid bloody vampire, of course.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

He shouldn't have agreed to it, he knew. He should have known it was lunacy when the shaman had produced the impossibly sharp dagger and insisted that he needed his blood for the locator spell to work. And then, of course, he had rolled up his sleeve and let him slice across his forearm, with what he belatedly and rather futilely prayed was a sterile blade. 

Connor had watched with concern in his dark eyes, while Faith had actually hissed in something approaching sympathy.

'Happy memories?' He whispered to her, strangely unsatisfied by the look of pain that crossed her face.

'Shit, Wes.' She swore under her breath, eyes wide.

'Quiet please.' The shaman sounded mildly irritated, as if he was not used to working under these circumstances.

He shook a small packet of silver powder into a pestle and mortar, along with as hair plucked from Connor's head. Mixed it into a smooth paste using his blood, and then spread the mixture over the already healing wound.

'Now what?' Faith demanded impatiently.

'Now we wait.'

 

He opened his eyes, not sure what to expect. He had expected to feel more ethereal. Less connected to the concrete world. He was standing, (not levitating a la demon Cordy) in a room lined with bookshelves. He felt a vague feeling of familiarity, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. There was quiet click, and the room was immediately suffused with a soft glow from an antique lamp on a desk.

The shock of recognition was instant, he straightened up automatically, shoulders squared, hands stiff by his sides. He was not here, could not be. It was not possible.

'Everything's possible.'

The voice was not the one he'd been dreading, and he felt himself relax slightly, the tension easing.

'Gotta say, expecting a little more awe, a little less sighing of relief.'

He turned to face a large black skinned demon with a heavy exoskeleton, and curiously human eyes that twinkled from a face that should have been nightmarish, but wasn't. The demon flashed a brilliant grin that made him wonder about the dental packages offered to those working for the higher powers.

'Wesley, right? I wasn't sure. You suit the stubble, though - and the extra arm.'

Wes blinked and wondered if the shaman had given him an overdose. The demon stuck out his armour-clad arm and grabbed his hand, shaking it firmly.

'Name's Skip - maybe Cordelia mentioned me?'

'Of course, the demon guide. Nice to meet you.'

They stood for a moment, an awkward polite silence between them.

'You're Cordelia's guide, yes?'

Skip nodded.

'So perhaps you could tell me what's happened to her?'

'Sorry, buddy. You seem like a nice guy, but it's more than my job's worth to go blabbing about that. I'd be kicked back downstairs to guard duty in the hell dimensions. She's safe, I promise you that.' He smiled reflectively. 'It's nice that her friends still care.'

'I'm not sure Cordelia considers me one of her friends any more.' He couldn't keep the bitterness out of his tone.

Skip waved his hand dismissively.

'You mean the whole baby kidnapping fiasco. That was happening regardless.' 

The demon paused and looked around the room, then back at him.

'I'm getting why you took him, though. The father will kill the son. You gotta protect the kid, right?'

Wesley said nothing. There was nothing he could say. To excuse his stupidity, his gullibility.

'You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes.' Skip's voice was so soft it was almost a whisper.

He looked around the room, at the solid oak desk, the large green leather armchair, the rows of shelves, heavy with old books. The desk lamp cast strange elongated shadows across the dark herringbone planks. He looked down at the floor, the familiarity of the situation almost overwhelming him. He had counted the knots and whorls in that wood as he had stood before the desk, listening. Always listening, trying to find clues, find some way to do better, be better. 'Everyone makes mistakes.' That had been unacceptable.

'You know that, don't you?' Skip's voice again, and he was back with him. 'You're allowed to make mistakes.'

Wes gave a short mirthless laugh. 'Don't know if Angel would agree with you on that one.'

'What about you?'

'I've had enough practice, if that's what you mean.'

'So you made a mistake. Now you're trying to put it right. Find the vampire. Fight the good fight.' He leaned casually against one of the bookshelves. 'I can help with that.'

He pulled out a leather-bound volume and opened it seemingly at random. The page contained nautical charts and a specific grid reference.

'You gotta hurry, Wes. That cage won't hold his soul forever.'

A chill ran down Wesley's spine. 'You think he might have turned, become Angelus?'

Skip met his gaze with an equally solemn one, then burst out laughing.

'Nah, just kidding. Just hoping for a set change, actually. This place is giving me the creeps.'

'You worked as a guard in a hell dimension, and this place gives you the creeps? Wes couldn't help smiling.

'Well, you know what to expect in a hell dimension - the name kind of gives it away. But this place, there's despair here. You could get lost here.' 

There was no trace of the mocking good humour in his voice now. His black eyes found Wesley's blue. 

'I know.' 

'Anyway. You go get Angel. And bring plenty of blood. Vampire's bound to be feeling hungry after his salt water diet.'

Wes nodded. 'Thank you, Skip.'

The large demon waved cheerily. 'Just doing my job. The powers I work for want to see you reunited. Fighting evil together. One big happy family.'  
He turned and opened the door of the study, disappearing into the non-existent hallway.

'Yep. Just one big happy family.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

He looked dreadful. His skin so pale it was almost translucent, lips cracked and blue. He had not yet opened his eyes.

'Is he dead?' She asked the Englishman quietly.

He sighed with deliberate impatience and unscrewed a jar of pig's blood.

'You know he's dead, Faith.'

'You know what I mean.' She hissed back, a flash of anger jolting through her like a current. And instantly she was back in that room, shoving a knotted gag into his mouth. God, she hated him for making her feel this way. Pedantic asshole.

'He's been existing in a state of starvation and isolation for about a month, now.' He looked up at the boy, Connor, who was standing as far as possible from his father's metal coffin. 

Kid has some sense, she thought. If... When Angel woke up, there was going to be hell to pay. And she had a feeling that Connor would be getting the bill.  
Wes slid his arm under the unconscious vampire's neck, and shook him slightly.

'Angel. Can you hear me?' There was no response from the body. 'Do you know who I am?'

Instantly his eyes opened, yellow and feral. She took a step back; hoped Wes had enough common sense to do the same. Angel tried to speak, but his skin on his lips cracked, his tongue was swollen with thirst and hunger. Wesley did not move away, but put the jar of blood to his wounded lips. He responded slowly at first, but gradually the gulping became increasingly desperate.

'Take it easy.' Wes's voice was incredibly calm. 'There's plenty of blood.'   
He reassured Angel, as he sucked greedily at the dregs of the first jar.  
She stood beside the prodigal son and watched her ex-watcher tend to her saviour. There was a quality to this man she had not appreciated before. Oh, it had been there, when she had provided him with a foretaste of hell. Only she had been too far-gone to see it. That quiet self-possession, the sustained determination to do what must be done, no matter what the cost.   
Another jar was produced, and Angel began to gain some degree of control over his reflexes.

'You... ' His voice was soft, as if from a far off place.

Wes tipped the jar a little more, his bandaged forearm brushing over Angel's face. The effect was amazing. Angel's hand came up, and seized his arm. She began to move towards them, but Wesley turned to her and shook his head. He carefully unwound the makeshift bandage that covered his still healing scar. Angel groaned very softly, and beside her, Connor hid his face in his hands.

She watched Wesley feed the man he had betrayed, watched Angel as he fed from the man he had almost killed. There was very little noise, just a tiny hiss of pain from Wes, as the vampire sank his teeth into the injured flesh. It lasted only a minute; Angel pulled away from him, and turned his head in her direction.

'Connor.' His voice was much more steady now, and she heard Connor's breathing quicken. 

'Faith?' Wesley said her name quietly. 'Can you give him a couple more jars? I need to talk to Connor.'

She obeyed him, like the good little slayer she wasn't. Stood over the vampire as he fed, and strained to catch what Wes was saying to the kid.

'It will be alright. He won't hurt you.'

The kid's answer was muffled by his hands. Something about 'What I did...'

'You did wrong. You know that. Now he needs to hear it.'

'I can't!' Her hand jerked at his heartbroken plea, and Angel caught her arm, forcing her to look at him.

'I want to see my son.' 

Wesley heard it too. Placed his hand on the kid's thin shoulder.

'You must be brave, Connor. We'll be here.'

He pushed the boy over to Angel gently, as she set down the last jar of blood. Connor stood before his father, his head bowed, a picture of misery and shame.

Angel reached up and took his son's hand, stroked his thumb over the trembling fingers.

'It's okay, Connor. It's okay.'

She heard Wesley release his breath in relief, felt her own body relax, suddenly aware of the tension that had been building in the room. 

Angel smiled gently. 'Things will be better now.'

 

They were back in the harbour within the hour. Wes had called a couple of people to come and pick them up. The tall dark guy did not volunteer much information, but the teeny redneck stick figure more than made up for his lack of conversational skills. She chattered incessantly, until it was all Faith could do not to slap her in the face. It was 'Are you alright, Angel,' and 'We were so worried, Angel' and not a word of thanks to Wes for saving him.

The vamp in question wasn't exactly talkative either. He remained silent as they helped him into the pick-up truck. Only when he had settled himself in the passenger seat did he finally speak.

'Thank you for rescuing me.' His eyes rested on Wesley. 

The former watcher stuffed his hands deep into his jacket pockets, did not answer.

'You brought my son back to me.' 

Connor stood by the door of the pick-up, staring at the ground as if hoping it might swallow him up.

'But you never should have taken him.' Angel's voice was ice cold, and she actually shivered.

'You made him what he is. You put me in that box, threw me into the ocean.'

Faith looked over to Wesley, waiting for him to defend himself. He did not speak.

'You do not come near my son ever again, do you understand? I never want to see you again.'

Connor gasped, backed away from the vehicle towards Wesley, but Wes shook his head. 'Go on, Connor. It's okay.' Faith felt her own heart breaking for him.  
Connor obeyed Wes; climbed miserably into the truck, as the other man closed the door.

'Faith, you know you're welcome to come with us.' 

She eyed the vampire defiantly.

'Thanks for the offer, Soul Boy, but I think I'll take my chances with Judas here.'

He met her mutinous gaze with ill concealed amusement. 'Unfinished business?'

The other man started the engine of the truck, and Angel leaned towards the open window.

'Let me know if you're planning on torturing him again. I really think I'd like to hear him scream.'

They were gone.

She felt as if someone had sucker punched her, all the wind seemed knocked out of her body. Wes didn't look much better. His face was ashen, and he looked as if he was ready to throw up. The Englishman was clearly struggling with some powerful emotions. She propped him up with a hand on his injured arm.

'Screw 'em, Wes.' She said decisively.

It worked. He leaned against her and began to laugh.

'God help me, Faith, if you're for me.'

She began to chuckle too.

'Way I figure it, things can only get better.'

Should have known not to say that.

The sudden sharp pain in her neck reminded her that Fate was never good at resisting temptation.


	5. A Dead Accounting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 6 of 8. I really felt that Angel needed to have a POV this time, so I let him.

.  
NOTES: Chapter 6 of 8. I really felt that Angel needed to have a POV this time, so I let him.

 

Chapter 6: A Dead Accounting

 

These are the souls of the broken factories  
The subject slaves of the broken crown  
The dead accounting of old guilty promises  
These are the souls of the broken town

 

Her voice was very small. 'You know why they want me, right?

He did not look at her. 'I have an idea, yes.'

'Tell me. Please.'

She figured it was the please that did it.

'The council will feel you're a lost cause. You turned your back on your calling, your duty. They need a slayer they can control, and that's not Buffy and it's not you, Faith'

He looked away from her, unwilling to continue.

'And Buffy hasn't killed anyone, and she hasn't tortured her watcher, and she hasn't been in jail.'

She knew she should have sounded more scornful, but at the minute all she was managing to sound was scared. Wesley closed his eyes.

'They need a new slayer.'

'I do know how it works, thanks very much, Wes.' Fear made her retort sharper than she intended. 'One slayer dies, another is called.'

'It's not that simple.' 

When is it ever, she thought grimly to herself.

'I've read... it has happened before; the council has manipulated the calling of a new slayer. But there are rituals that must be performed. They can't just kill you.'

'Yeah, well, that's comforting. What sort of rituals? 'Cos I'm guessing, not pleasant.'

'I don't know that exact details.' 

He rubbed his eyebrow as he spoke, and she wondered what this little gesture signified. Maybe that he did know, and that knowledge was so terrible that he was lying to protect her.

'The books detailing the process are very rare. Only the council's elite inner circle would have access to them. And as you know, Faith, the circles I currently move in are neither inner nor elite.'

He sopped suddenly, smacked his hand hard against his forehead.

'Of course! I'm an idiot!'

She eyed him rather cautiously. 'You'll notice I'm not arguing with that.'

He ignored her. 'A stupid self-centred idiot!'

'Ah, come on, Wes, I wouldn't say that.' He was making no sense at all now.

'I was there, in that room, and I didn't even notice!'

'Wesley. You lost me. What the hell are you babbling on about?'

He refocused, seemed to suddenly become aware of her presence again.

'When the shaman worked the locator spell, it took me to a room that I recognized. I thought it was strange at the time, but I was somewhat preoccupied with finding Angel. I'm sure the books containing this ritual would be kept there.'

'And how do you plan on getting back there?'

He tutted at her, as if he couldn't believe how dim-witted she was. She punched his shoulder in retaliation, and was disappointed to observe that he barely noticed.

'We should go back to the shaman. If he would put me back into the trance, perhaps I could gain access to the books we need. Then at least we would know what we were up against.'

He sounded suddenly like the Wes she remembered from Sunnydale, all hot and bothered over the chance of some mind-numbingly dull research. 

'Well, Faith. We can't lounge around here all night. There's work to be done.'

She backed away from him, stared at his collarbone in fascinated horror, half expecting to see a crimson stain flourish under his dark shirt. He stopped too, clearly realizing that something was wrong.

'What? What is it?'

She forced herself to remain calm.

'It's nothing. Just some weird déjà vu thing.' She had played that dream over in her head a hundred times, but to hear those words actually spoken by Wes was just too unsettling.

He threw his leg over the bike and held out the helmet to her. She took a step towards him, then froze.

'Come on, Faith! We don't have much time.'

She tried to get the words out, truly she did. But they moved too fast, and the dart was embedded in his neck before she could warn him. His eyes widened, his hand half rose to the wound before he lost consciousness, toppling off the bike and cracking his head on the edge of the pavement.

The doors of the dark sedan opened and three men got out. Surprisingly tall and muscular, she noted ominously. She stepped back into a fighting stance, hoping to fake them out. The tallest of the three, a blonde, grabbed her wrist as she balled up her fist, ready to strike. Although she was expecting it this time, the strength and firmness of his grip still surprised her. His hand twisted and suddenly she was in a vicious arm lock, feeling the bones in her wrist separating. She struggled and was rewarded with a tightening of the fingers around her wrist. She could not prevent the small squeak of pain that accompanied his manoeuvre.

'Be careful.' One of the others warned. 'We don't want her damaged. Yet.'

Wes had been right. The guy spoke as if he had swallowed a plum, his accent bearing uncomfortable similarities to Sunnydale Wes's.

The Council of bloody wankers.

The third man, clearly one of the muscle, aimed his boot into Wesley's gut. She winced at the sickening crunch of steel toecap meeting soft flesh.

'What about him? D'you want me to work him over and dump him?'

The one who had spoken before shook his head.

'No. He's to be brought with her. Mr. Teuer wants him alive.' He glanced down at Wesley's inert form, a purpling bruise blossoming at his temple. 'And relatively unharmed.'

The crippling grip on her wrist intensified, and she was marched over to the car, shoved into the back seat unceremoniously. A few minutes later, a comatose Wesley landed on top of her, his head smacking smartly against the car door.

God, he was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.

 

A soft moan came from his huddled form, and he opened his eyes slowly, staring up at her. The initial flash of fear she saw in them, gradually subsiding when he got his bearings, dismayed her. He sat up carefully, grimaced as he raised his hand to his forehead.

'How long was I out?'

'Not long. Maybe ten minutes.' She reached out impulsively, and pressed her fingertips to the wound on his neck, which was bleeding a little.  
He stiffened, and she drew her hand back quickly, obscurely embarrassed by her actions. He gave her a half-smile and reached over, lifted the hair away from her own neck.

'Snap.' He murmured gently.

'His and hers matching scars, Wes. What all the best-dressed slayers are wearing this season.' She offered, trying to cover her growing unease with a quip.

'You didn't happen to catch where they were taking us?' He enquired in a low voice.

'Not big with the sharing, these guys. We're headed west, I figure, maybe into the suburbs.'

He nodded sagely. 'Taking us to a safe house, I expect.'

'And I'm guessing here, but the term safe doesn't apply to me?'

There was the sound of an electric motor whirring, and one of their kidnappers, the plumy voiced one, turned to address them.

'Good. You're awake. My boss would have been rather upset if you had been permanently damaged.'

'That makes two of us.' Wes retorted, and she chuckled under her breath.

'You're from the Council, I gather.'

'Alistair Hewitt. Class of '95' 

As if they were at one of their old school tie reunions. She half expected him to stick his hand out for Wes to shake.

'We'll be there soon. Try to get some rest. Mr. Teuer has a big night planned for you both.'

She had been watching Wesley as the other Englishman was speaking. He leaned forward suddenly, his voice urgent.

'Who did you say?'

The other man shrugged, obviously didn't see any harm in his revelation.

'My boss, Mr. Teuer.'

It seemed as if all the blood had drained from  
Wesley's face in an instant. He looked sick to his stomach.

'Jeez, who's this guy, Teuer? Is he like the Council's main hit man?'

Wes did not answer for a moment, stared down at his fingernails. 

Then looked up at her, his face ashen.

Followed by a total non sequitur.

'You don't, by any chance, happen to speak German, Faith?' 

 

*~*~*~*

 

He finished the mug of blood that Fred had thoughtfully heated for him. It had felt like he would never be satisfied again, the ravenous hunger that he had experienced on board that boat had been terrifying in its intensity. Like crawling out of the ground when he was newly made, desiring the strongest, sweetest, most intoxicating blood. That of family. His sister, his mother, and of course his father. A liquor infected with love and loathing, bitterness and betrayal. It had been a heady mix, he remembered, and one he had never tired of. That had been proved by his actions tonight, when he had fed from him. 

He had not wanted to stop.

To see them together, his once best friend and the child he had stolen, that had broken him. The way Connor looked to him for guidance, reassurance, comfort... oh, he had wanted Wesley punished for that. For stealing his son again. He had enjoyed the look of dejected surprise on his face, when he had issued judgement against him. But he was beginning to realize that Connor would not accept him if he denied Wesley.

Damn the Englishman.

He was sure the boy was beyond terror by now, and made his way up to Connor's room. In truth, he was not planning to punish his child for the mistakes that other people had made. Back on the boat he had seen it in his eyes, real remorse for what he had done. But there was no harm in making the kid sweat it out for a while.

He tapped lightly on the bedroom door and pushed it open. The window was half open, and Connor was long gone. And it didn't take much to figure out where he was headed. Back to kind old Uncle Wes, away from his bad vampire Daddy. He sat down weakly on the bed, the scent of his son strong there. Put out his hand and placed it on the pillow. It was damp, and he raised it to his face, smelling salt and fear and grief.

He had lost him again. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.

 

He had gone first to the Englishman's apartment, hammered loud enough to wake the dead, undead, and any other demonic entities that might have been abiding there, but it was clear that the apartment was unoccupied. The old lady who lived below had confirmed that Wes had not returned home, after leaving earlier with the hooker and the hoodlum. 

His next port of call was the harbour where he had seen them last. He had seen signs of a struggle, as well as a judicious amount of dust in the vicinity. This in turn had led him to his current location, a well-known bar in the harbour area, heavily frequented by the local vamps. He ordered a pint of O positive, and eyed the bartender thoughtfully.

The seemingly human continued to polish an already clean glass methodically and stared right back.

'Don't I know you from somewhere?'

He took a long pull from his glass. 'Don't think so. I don't come around here much.'

'So you're here now because... Let me guess. You need information.' Voice dripping with contempt.

Angel leaned forward and sniffed appreciatively.

'There aren't many of you passing. Only one I knew was half human - on his mother's side.'

The bartender stiffened. 'You knew him? The Promised One?'

He smiled. 'You see, that was meant to be my gig. Damn Irish half-breed had to go and play the hero.'

'You're Angel? Doyle's sidekick?'

Of course. In the Brachen world Doyle was the champion; he was just the understudy. He smiled wryly and nodded.

'Whatever you need, Mister Angel. And the blood's on the house.'

Talk about friends in high places. He mouthed a silent thank you to the great tavern in the sky, pretty sure that Doyle was up there laughing his ass off about now.

'A couple of... friends of mine got into an altercation with some vamps tonight, over by the docks. I was wondering if anyone here knew anything about it?'

'Hot little brunette and a rough looking guy with a throat scar?'

He couldn't quite believe his luck. 'You've seen them, then.'

The half demon shook his head. 'Not in the flesh. There were a couple of guys in here last night, looking for muscle. You know the type. Offering the keys to the blood bank in return for a bit of dirty work. They were flashing around photos of the marks - your friends, I mean.'

'What kind of dirty work?'

The demon leaned forward conspiratorially. 'No killing required. I'm pretty sure there were drugs involved. I saw one of the guys hand over a package - told the vamp to make sure he got her in the neck.'

'You get a good look at these guys?'

'Well dressed, nicely groomed. English accents - one Hugh Grant, quietly tasteful. One more Sid and Nancy. Quietly vicious.

Angel nodded. Didn't sound like Wolfram and Hart.

'I don't suppose they left an address?' He joked.

The Brachen demon reached under the bar; produced a scrap of folded paper. His eyes positively twinkled.

'Rental agreement. Fell out of his wallet when he was paying.' He handed it over to Angel. 'I do like to know exactly what's going on in my bar.'

'I don't know what to say...' he was overwhelmed by the half demon's kindness.

'Forget it. Any friend of Doyle's... well, you know.'

He nodded; folded the paper and shoved it into his pocket. He was certain that these people knew where Wesley and Faith were. And where he found them, he would find Connor.

 

*~*~*~*

 

He placed the lit cigar in the heavy pewter ashtray, which was placed on the occasional table outside the door, and nodded to the man who stood beside it. He was tall and solidly built, his well-defined biceps clearly visible under the blue oxford shirt. 

'Allen, I'll give them some time to think over their situation. I'm sure they won't give any trouble, but I'd like you in there, all the same.'

'Yes, sir.'

He liked Allen very much. He was obedient, highly motivated, and well trained in a number of martial arts. Most importantly, he accepted his orders without question, without the whiny doubting that typified many of the Council's younger operatives. There were so few like Allen left. This latest cohort of watchers came from a generation raised to believe that each human life was sacred, that the sacrifice of even a few for the sake of many was an unacceptably high price to pay.

They were fools.

He made his way down the hall to the kitchen; found Hewitt and Ramsey engaged in a game of cards at the table.

'Glad to see you're paying attention, gentlemen.' He said softly, when both men jumped at his entrance. 'We wouldn't want someone catch us unawares.'  
Hewitt guiltily pushed his cards to the side of the table, and stood up quickly.

'Can I get you something, sir?' He went to the sink and began to fill the kettle with water. 'A cup of tea, perhaps.'

He sighed heavily. 'That would be pleasant.' 

He sat down in the chair that Hewitt had vacated, and looked pointedly at Ramsey. Realization dawned on him, and he stood up too, set off down the hallway to stand guard outside the other room. He closed his eyes and listened to the hiss of the kettle boiling, underscored by the faint sound of sobbing.

It wasn't as if he enjoyed it. But there were always sacrifices that had to be made, and wills that had to be broken. And he had never been one to shy away from doing what needed to be done. One of the reasons that Travers had chosen him for this particular assignment. There were so few of them left now, men who were willing take the consequences of their actions. He knew that ultimately he was on the side of right, and the way of the righteous was indeed thorny.

That brought him to the ex-watcher. He had been pleasantly surprised by the stamina that the younger man had shown. He had initially feared that he would be too weak, would cave in under the slightest pressure, but those fears had proved groundless. It had to be convincing, of course, Wesley must not be allowed to suspect the real reason for Faith's capture. He was willing to take it as far as necessary, force the ex-watcher to carry out the ritual, but for now it suited his purposes very nicely to have the man hold out for as long as possible.

He looked down at his fingers and briefly wondered how much it had hurt. To Wesley's credit, he had not screamed, had simply sucked in his breath as the glowing tip had met with skin, and let it out in a jagged hiss when the cigar was removed. An impressive display of stoicism, and one he would not have believed him capable of.

He raised the china cup to his lips, and sipped, allowing the subtle burn of the hot liquid to travel down his throat unchecked. Hewitt had crept out of the kitchen, presumably to avoid any discussion of what was happening in the room at the end of the hall. He was one of the doubters, too weak to do what was necessary, yet too pathetic to stand up for what he believed in. He despised his hypocrisy, and was rather glad the man had slunk out of the room.

A small, unexpected sound from the hall brought him out of his reverie, set alarm bells ringing. He glanced at his watch, and was relieved to discover that almost four hours had passed since Faith and her ex-watcher had been captured. Ample time for Wolfram and Hart to complete their end of the bargain.

He stood up, and went into the hall, unsurprised to find Ramsey slumped unconscious against the wainscoting. He stepped over him and made his way back to the room. Allen was also unconscious, fresh blood seeping from some minor head trauma. He would live. Hewitt, however, was unfortunately still conscious, as evidenced by his terrified whimpers, as the vampire tightened his grip on his throat. 

'I'm curious as to how you managed to access this property, Angel. It is Angel, I presume?'

The souled vampire nodded sharply, squeezed Hewitt's bared throat in a disturbingly tender fashion.

'The landlord was impressed by the price I was willing to pay to acquire this prime example of L.A. real estate.' 

With his free hand, the vampire reached into his pocket and pulled out a pulled out a set of keys.

'Of course, threatening to kill his wife and kids was also a factor in wangling an invite.'

'But how did you overcome the wards placed around the building?' He kept his tone light, conversational.

The creature shrugged. 'Didn't find any.'

He sighed. Looked over at Hewitt, who if possible looked even more petrified. Trust him to bungle the simplest of warding spells. He would wish the vampire had killed him when he had finished with him.

'I'm surprised that you'd bother to rescue him. After all, he did abduct your only son.' He looked very carefully at Wesley as he spoke, but he betrayed no emotion.

'I'm not here for him. Or the girl.' 

A reaction this time. Wesley's eyes widened a fraction, a shadow of grief reflected there, momentarily. 

'I want to know where Connor is.'

'I haven't the slightest idea.' He smiled pleasantly.

'But he does.' Angel hissed, eyeing the former watcher with undisguised malice.

There was a soft crack, as the vampire snapped Hewitt's wrist, and he moaned, then fainted.

He watched as the vampire untied the rogue slayer and her failed watcher, then reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small gun.

'I'm afraid I really can't allow them to leave.' He said pleasantly, waving the gun rather apologetically.

Angel laughed. 'You think that's going to stop me?' He pointed derisively at the gun.

'I rather think it will. The bullets have been hand forged and blessed by a certain order of Cistercian monks. They've tested relatively well in the field. They won't kill you, of course. But I think death might be preferable to a wound that never heals. All that eternal pain and suffering, it's enough to make you want to throw yourself on a stake, don't you think?'

He was pleased with the effect of his words. The vampire froze instantly, while the two humans eyed the gun warily. 

'It will, however, kill you both, so I'd consider carefully any sudden moves you are planning.'

It was the slayer who spoke.

'How can you? You're supposed to work for the good guys!' She was trembling with anger.

'The good guys? My dear girl, you have no concept of what is at stake here.' He raised his eyebrow at her naivety.

'You're bluffing. I can't believe you would actually do this.'

Wesley spoke for the first time since he had entered the room.

'Believe it, Faith.'

They looked at each other. Wesley's eyes full of grim understanding, his of a new found respect for the damaged man who stood before him.

And let his guard down for a second.

A second too long.

The vampire had him by the throat, the gun wrested from his grip. He forced himself to remain calm, even as those icy fingers clamped around his windpipe.

'Now, Mr. Teuer, I want to know where my son is.'

'I'm afraid I can't help you.' The pressure on his neck intensified.

'Consider it a ransom rather than a request. Your life in return for his whereabouts.'

Then so be it. He closed his eyes serenely, as his lungs began to fight for air.

From a distant place he heard Wesley, his soft voice belying the turmoil within.

'No, Angel. Don't kill him. Please.'

The pressure slackened briefly, and he gulped a lungful of oxygen.

'He doesn't need to tell us. It has to have something to do with Wolfram and Hart.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

This was not how she had envisioned things working out.

The boy's retrieval had been textbook; he had happily accompanied Mitchell's team back to the office. He had even given her a shy smile, which made her wonder what the hell Wes had told him about her. It amused her enormously to imagine their conversation, Connor's innocent questions and Wesley's circumspect answers.

'You know Wesley.' The boy had stated in a curiously familiar accent, influenced heavily by Holtz's country of origin. That must have pissed Angel off, to hear those proper British undertones in his son's voice.

'Hm. You could say I know him very well.' Her inference had been lost on such a guileless child.

Connor had simply looked puzzled. 'I don't understand. You are enemies; he works for good and you work for...' He had paused, searching for the appropriate words. 'Evil Incarnate. And yet you take pleasure in each other's company.'

She couldn't help smiling at his turn of phrase. There was quite a bit of taking involved in their nocturnal activities.

'I'm sure Wesley explained it to you, Connor. The old shades of grey speech. Wes likes to kid himself that there's a little bit of good in all of us.' 

She had been putting him at his ease, would have had the miracle child eating out of her hand, until Linwood interfered.

He had strode into her office officiously, with Gavin gambolling behind him like the sycophantic toad he was. 

'I believe you have something I want, Lilah.' His eyes rested on the vampire's child, then addressed him coldly. 'Your daddy is not a very nice man, Connor.'

'He's not a man.' She could have told him that his veiled threats would mean very little to the kid.

'No, he's not. Which makes you very special. I've been wondering for a long time about your exceptional inheritance. Perhaps now I have the chance to find out.

She had not been able to stop him. He was still her senior, with a large network of spies under his jurisdiction, as well as several well-armed operatives. Connor had been swiftly removed from her office to Linwood's suite, up on the seventh floor. Several of the tests had already been carried out, and Connor was looking rather the worse for wear. The mind scans had been relatively painless, but psychologically very traumatic. The physical tests that had been performed thus far had left the vampire's child exhausted.

She watched idly as Linwood fiddled with a switch on the taser, humming softly to himself. It was obvious that he was enjoying this. Connor's dark eyes opened wide as the instrument was brought close to his side, but he no longer struggled against his restraints.

'And this test is meant to demonstrate what?' She leaned on the corner of his desk, feigning boredom.

'His ability to withstand pain.' Linwood answered without turning to her.  
'I think by now we all know his pain threshold is high.' She pretended to inspect her nails. 'Higher than yours, at any rate.' She added under her breath.

There was a quiet hum of electrical energy, and Connor made a small noise that could barely have been called a moan. Tough kid.

'You better be careful. The senior partners have sent word that he's not to be damaged. Especially after those scans.'

'Oh, I won't damage him permanently. I'm just exacting a little revenge.'

He was a petty little man. She didn't believe he would have lasted more than a week under Holland. Would have probably have ended up in one of the more bureaucratic hell dimensions, counting an infinite number of paper clips. The thought warmed her heart.

'Sins of the father. Highly original motive. Here's a thought; he spent his infancy and childhood years trapped in the daddy of all hell dimensions; while you got tossed down a couple of stairs by his dad. I'm thinking Connor got the raw end of the deal.'

'Not going soft on us, are you, Lilah?' He looked at her this time, and she wanted to punch his smug face until it bled.

She threw him a disdainful look. 'Not at all. I just don't see the point of wasting our time and resources now that we have the information we require.'  
She stood up and walked out of the office. Took the lift to her own, where she came face to face with her erstwhile lover, and the rogue slayer. She managed to hide her surprise incredibly well.

'Faith. Hello. You're looking... well, tired.' She read fury in the other woman's eyes, but for some reason she was not threatening her physically. 'And Wes. You look...' 

Wesley looked like shit. Correction. Like it had been beaten out of him. He had the beginnings of a black eye, and there was evidence of trauma to the rest of his face. His left hand was bound inside his jacket with a makeshift sling.

'Enough, Lilah. We're not here to exchange pleasantries. You know what we want.'

She stopped him with a finger to her lips. Slid in behind her desk and scribbled a note on the pad.

"You're looking for Connor?"

Wes nodded, somewhat taken aback by all the cloak and dagger stuff.

"Seventh floor. Linwood's offices."

He nodded swiftly and turned to leave, slayer in tow.

She spoke again. 'Forgive my frankness, Wes, but you're not going to get very far in the state you're in. Where's Mr. Sandman?'

She liked the way he flinched at that, she still had it. 

'Vampire detectors.' He quirked an eyebrow at her, and for just a second she felt a little burn in the pit of her stomach.

'Think I might be able to help you with that.'

They both stared at her then, unable to believe what they were hearing. She smiled conspiratorially, and wrote on the notepad.

"Linwood has it coming."

She quickly scribbled out the details of her plan, and they nodded in stunned silence. She shooed them out of her office to accomplish the rescue, then pushed a sequence of numbers on her phone.

'Sir, it's Lilah Morgan. Head of Special Projects... You have? Well, I'm flattered that you noticed my work.' She paused, listened intently. 'Yes, that was my feeling exactly. You'll arrange for the thresholds to be deactivated, provide a minimum security presence... Of course, sir. We don't want them to suspect anything... No, thank you, sir.'

She put the 'phone down and allowed herself a small smile. She was now in the confidence of one of the most senior Senior Partners; Wesley was now thinking warm 'shades of grey' thoughts about her noble acts of treachery; and most importantly, Linwood was about to get his sorry ass kicked by one seriously pissed off undead dad.

No, this wasn't how she had envisioned things working out.

This was infinitely more satisfying.


	6. The Ninth World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 7of 8. This chapter is rather dark, with some torture scenes (not too graphic, I hope). Only two POVs this time; Wes's is straightforward narrative, Faith's is part narrative, part flashback. It should be fairly obvious which is which...

NOTES: Chapter 7of 8. This chapter is rather dark, with some torture scenes (not too graphic, I hope). Only two POVs this time; Wes's is straightforward narrative, Faith's is part narrative, part flashback. It should be fairly obvious which is which...

 

Chapter 7: The Ninth World

 

He's the king of the ninth world  
The twisted son of the fog bells' toll  
In each and every lobster cage  
A tortured human soul

 

It had almost been too easy. 

Lilah had kept her word, and Angel had been able to enter the building via the tunnels without setting off any alarms. There had been very little evidence of security on the upper floors; anything they had met with had been quickly and dispassionately dealt with by Angel.

Wesley had watched their efficient dispatch at the vampire's hands with a sense of foreboding; he was allowing the rage to build inside him, nurturing it. If he released it on the man who held his son captive, there was a good chance that Linwood might not survive. Now that wasn't necessarily a bad thing; but to kill a human, no matter how despicable, was not part of the Powers' brief. To almost kill one was fine, of course, he thought, a little bitterly.

He stayed close to the vampire, and wisely made no attempt at small talk. Faith was managing to hold her own, but it was clear from her pained expression that the effects of the drug had not yet worn off. He tried to remember back to his college lectures on the Cruciamentum, but he was unsure of the dosage and strength, and he was certain that there had been advances in the procedure since his Council days. He had been out of the loop for a while. But even with her slayer abilities suppressed, she was still a resolute fighter. One he was glad was on their side.

He, on the other hand, was not so much an asset as a handicap. His head hurt in more places than he could reasonably identify, while the throbbing in his hand and forearm had become ever more insistent, pain demanding to be acknowledged. He had swallowed a couple of the painkillers they had prescribed on discharging him from hospital after the Connor fiasco. He carried them in his wallet now, part of his armoury, along with the stakes, the daggers, and the holy water pistol. Oh, and a good healthy dose of guilt and self-doubt. Essential weapons for any rogue demon hunter.

They were not, by any stretch of imagination, a crack fighting force. Which brought him again to the same conclusion: this was way too easy. He kept these anxious little ruminations to himself; correctly imagining that Angel would not be in the mood to listen to his paranoid musings. From the look on his face, he was more in the mood to beat him to a bloody pulp.

They were now outside Linwood's suite of offices, and the vampire turned to him, his face impassive.

'You really think you can trust Lilah?'

Wesley nodded. As strange as it seemed, he believed she was telling the truth about Connor. Of course, he wasn't sure why she was helping them, but at this point in the proceedings he no longer cared. He could spend some time examining her motives and moral position, when they had rescued Connor. If they rescued Connor.

He looked back at Angel; spoke quietly. 'You keep Linwood and any security busy. Faith, you back him up as much as you can. I'll free Connor' 

The vampire glared at him. 'He's my son. I'll get him!'

He sighed softly. 'Angel. Think about this. You have the strength, speed and agility to fight off whatever safety measures they have in place. I am currently one armed and not very dangerous, and wouldn't last five minutes against even the most pathetic of security guards. And much as I'm sure that thought gives you Angelus-inducing type pleasure, I'm no use to you dead.'

For a moment he thought Angel would test that theory, the dark eyes filling with undisguised malice. Then the vampire gritted his teeth and gave a swift angry nod.

They entered the room.

Lilah had given them a brief, dispassionate description of the scene that was now before them, but it still made him draw in his breath in a quiet gasp. Connor was tethered to the far wall of the office, his wrists and ankles bound by heavy manacles, which were ornately inscribed with what appeared to be runic symbols. He was still conscious, but only just. His head lolled forward, dark hair flopping over his bruised eyes.

Linwood was standing just to the left of his captive, his attention focused on recharging the taser he held in his hand. Gavin Park stood by the desk, watching the situation with undisguised glee, while two sharp suited security guards stood directly in front of them. Linwood signalled with his finger, and the guards remained still, weapons poised.

'Ah, Angel. Didn't hear you come in. I'm just carrying out a few tests. I hear Connor has been a rather naughty boy. Sent Daddy to sleep with the fishes.' He held out the taser, offering it to Angel. 'Perhaps you'd like to indulge in a little paternal discipline.'

Wesley thought that he had seen Angel's rage. That night in the hospital when his friend had seized a pillow and tried to smother him out of existence, he believed he had seen the souled vampire's rage. Had believed it until now.

There was a scream that was primal in its purity, a howl that reminded him briefly of the stories his Irish nanny had told him of the Banshee. It was at once both guttural and piercing, full of intense grief and incandescent fury. Before they could react, both guards were down, writhing in agony on the floor. The stakes they had been holding were now embedded in their own palms. Park was backing away from the crazed vampire, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender. Wesley moved to the wall where Connor was chained, heard two sharp snaps as Gavin's surrender was rather vehemently rejected. He gave the damaged child a smile of confidence he did not feel, and began to work on deciphering the coded locks on the cuffs.

Linwood was looking less than smug; he had retreated away from his prisoner, and was now holding the taser as a weapon, rather than an invitation. Faith was busy at the office entrance, using a crossbow with impressive, though thankfully less than deadly, efficiency. The few guards that had actually made it to the seventh floor were greeted with the sight of their colleagues rolling on the floor, crossbow bolts embedded in various non-fatal areas. Most were taking the sensible option, and turning tail as quickly as possible.

Lilah had explained that the cuffs were magically locked using the runic symbols, and that she was sure that someone with his 'great big brain' would have no trouble picking the lock. Which he took to mean she didn't have a clue how to decipher the code. Bloody marvellous. It was difficult enough to translate and interpret the ancient symbols, while a full pitched battle was raging around you, never mind try and figure out some nasty little encryption that Linwood had dreamt up. 

He tried to work methodically and calmly, but the shallow, laboured breathing of the boy before him made his hand tremble with emotion. He placed his hand on Connor's chest, felt the child's heartbeat thud against his palm. A few moments later, he had decoded the puzzle, and began to twist the locks in the correct sequence. Almost instantaneously, the cuffs dropped open, and Connor fell towards him, deadweight. He caught the boy with his good arm, and cradled him gently, ignoring the shrieks of agony in his bandaged hand as Connor's body slumped against it.

He became aware of petrified gibbering behind him, and manoeuvred the boy round until he could see Angel. The vampire was holding Linwood by the short white hairs at the top of his skull, which were already beginning to tear from his scalp. The man was sobbing in terror. Angel's face was still fully human, wearing an expression of pleasure that made Wesley shiver involuntarily.

'Angel, we have to go. Connor needs to go to a hospital. Now.' 

Much as he hated to admit it, so did he. He was in no doubt that at least two of his fingers were broken, and the waves of nausea that were washing over him confirmed that the various blows to his head earlier in the evening would result in concussion. The vampire did not answer, but continued to jab the fully charged taser into the Linwood's body. The man's legs hung limply between blows, but each time the weapon was applied, they kicked and jerked as a puppet's.

'Angel!' he shouted, and Faith turned, noticing how Connor sagged on his arm, and came to his rescue. She scooped the boy up with a gentleness Wesley had not seen before, her dark eyes full of concern. 

'Your slayer strength back?' He asked, noticing the ease with which she lifted Connor. 

She shook her head, hardly able to answer. 'God, Wes. He weighs nothing.'

He nodded, then began the suicide mission of stopping Angel from murdering his son's torturer.

'Angel, you can't do this.'

'Shut up, Wesley!' His voice tight, warning him to back off. 

'Angel.' Wesley stepped up beside him, laid his hand on the vampire's free arm. Angel brushed him off with a backhand that landed on his bruised cheekbone, sending him skidding across the carpet. 

'I said shut up.' 

His head throbbed louder, and the pain in his hand made him want to throw up. Alright. He had done his best. Let the stupid bloody vampire kill Linwood; let him deal with the guilt that would inevitably follow. He wasn't going to hang around to be a punch bag for Soul Boy, as Faith had called him.

He got to his feet, staggered over to where Faith stood with Connor. 

'Come on. We've got to get him to hospital. Let the Avenging Angel take his pound of flesh.'

She nodded silently; and hefted her slight burden. There was a soft moan from the boy; the first sound that he had made, and they all stopped. Connor's eyes were fixed on the vampire.

In a quiet, but very clear voice, he addressed Angel.

'Dad. Please, don't do this. Not for me.'

The vampire let the terrified human slip from his grasp, and Linwood fell to the floor, his limbs entangled.

'Connor?' His own voice almost as soft as his son's.

'Please, Dad.' Then Connor closed his eyes, and wilted in Faith's arms, his breathing slowing.

He wasn't sure if it was the 'please' or the use of the word 'Dad', but Angel moved to his child, lifted him from the slayer, and held him close to his chest.

'It's okay, Connor. Things will be better now.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

The key turned in the lock, and she let herself in, trying desperately to be quiet. She was hoping they'd both be asleep by now; they needed to rest after all they'd been through last night. A familiar feeling of guilt seized her, knowing that she was partly responsible for what had been done to them. Well, him, mainly.

 

'Have you so forsaken your duty that you side with that... murderer, against the council?'

His answer was quiet, no trace of fear in his voice.

'My duty is to her. To guide and protect her.'

Her heart stuttered at his words, felt it would break in pieces. A sneering laugh snapped her back to painful reality.

'You're a fool, Wesley. You always were.'

There was a pause, the elder man bending down to look at him directly.

'I can't believe that you have forgotten what she did to you, boy.'

He grasped Wesley's shirt, and pulled it back, exposing the scar tissue around his collarbone and shoulders. She closed her eyes, could not look at the damage she had inflicted, not here, not in this twisted parody of her own torture session.

Again came that soft, cool, detached voice. 'She's changed.'

'And you haven't.' The man's tone was hard. 'Still the same soft-hearted fool I always despaired of.'

'And you're still the same callous bastard you always were.'

Wes showed more bravery in that moment than she'd ever give herself credit for in the same situation. She winced as the backhanded blow connected with his left cheek, a small well of blood appearing at his lip. The other man's voice was very soft now, but as cold as ice.

'You will perform this ritual, boy, of that have no doubt.'

'No, sir. I will not.'

Another blow, delivered calmly, caught his left temple, cracking his head against the back of the wooden chair.

'I don't want to have to hurt you, Wesley.'

The younger Englishman shifted a little in his seat, blood trickling slowly from his lip, his bound hands preventing him from wiping it away. He looked up at the other man, his gaze steady.

'That's never stopped you before, Father.'

She shut her eyes again, anticipating the blow before it landed.

'Please. Stop.' 

She was surprised to hear her own voice begging. The older man turned to her briefly, the blue of his eyes heartbreakingly familiar, yet alien.

'Suddenly squeamish, my dear. I do seem to recall you did much worse to him.'

She shook her head, desperately trying to remove the image of that night, which was currently playing in her head.

'But he's your son.' It was all she could whisper.

'All the more reason for him to obey me.'

She looked at Wesley, his damaged face a haunting echo from her guilt-ridden nightmares. But his eyes were changed. There was no scorn or disgust there now; he looked at her with understanding, concern, even.

'Wes...' She had no words to express her sorrow.

'It's okay, Faith.' The tortured man reassured her gently.

 

He lay now on the sofa, still fully clothed, had obviously been planning to wait up for her. He had dozed off, his good hand under his head, his other curled against his chest in a loose fist. The glow from the reading lamp illuminated his face, shadowy bruises still dark beneath his eyes; a myriad of cuts visible on his cheekbone, along his jaw line.

She tiptoed into the kitchen and filled the kettle quietly, then noticed the plate of cookies left for her. Her heart was filled with inexplicable joy at his thoughtfulness. She rummaged in the cupboard overhead and rather depressingly discovered only teabags. She threw one into a china mug sitting by the side of the stove, added the freshly boiled water, and poked at the teabag with a spoon until the water turned a rich brown. She carried the mug and the plate of cookies into the other room to watch him as she ate.

His eyes flickered beneath his lids, stirring in his sleep. She finished her tea, set the cup on the low table between them. He sighed quietly, and she went to him, gently lifted his head, placing a pillow beneath it. He shivered suddenly, and she grabbed the fleece throw, draped it over him, being careful to avoid his injured hand. He stirred again, a soft moan escaping his lips.

 

'You can make it stop, Wesley. I know it hurts.'

The older man spoke so quietly that Faith could barely make him out. He had paused momentarily, and Wes had relaxed slightly in his seat, his head tipping forward onto his chest. He was so still that she was not sure he was conscious. His left arm was bound to the arm of the chair, his hand hanging off the edge, palm awkwardly upraised. His smallest finger was bent at an odd, unnatural angle; it made her feel sick to look at it.

'All you have to do is perform the ritual. Then I can make the pain go away.'

Wesley's head snapped up, with surprising speed.

'I can't do that, sir. Do what you like. I know you can't kill me, because you need me to kill her.'

The other knelt by him, close to his ear.

'You're right, my boy. I won't kill you.'

Wesley closed his eyes in satisfaction.

'But I'll make you wish you had never been born.'

His blue eyes opened, and Faith was astonished by the twinkle in them.

'I think you'll find that's your fantasy, Father, not mine.'

Fist connected with cheekbone, hard.

'Such an insolent boy. I have to admit, though, I'm impressed. I never thought it would take this long to break you. You've got more backbone than I gave you credit for.' 

A pause, the man looking at his son almost thoughtfully.

'You know I can break you, Wesley. I know your weaknesses. All those little dark places...'

His hand moved to cover his son's; and Wesley braced himself in the chair.

Faith closed her eyes.

 

'Don't.'

Barely a whisper, the word was breathed out as Faith settled the fleece about his shoulders. She froze, wondering if she had bumped his injured arm. But he was still asleep, and his voice sounded strange, much younger than normal.

'Please. I'm sorry.'

He was dreaming, and she could not move, knelt by the couch as he whispered brokenly.

'I'll try harder, I'll do better, I promise.'

This was a voice she had not heard before, even when she had tortured him, a voice begging to be forgiven. This was not something she was meant to witness, she realized. This was a private Wes, a part of him he kept well hidden. His breathing had become rapid and shallow; his whispers were now frantic and indistinct; he was muttering desperately about darkness and cold and hunger. She could not bear it.

'Wesley. Wake up.' She brushed her hand over his brow, trying to wake him as gently as possible. 

He opened his eyes, and automatically cringed from her touch. She lifted her hand away quickly, reading fear in his eyes. He would never forget their history, she realized. Even the most inoffensive touch opened his memory to the dark places she visited in her nightmares. She wondered if he was still biting back the screams she never heard.

'You were having a nightmare.'

He nodded, gaining more control over his breathing, obviously embarrassed. He put out his hand, searching for non-existent glasses; then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

'I must have dozed off.'

She suddenly felt like a stranger, an intruder in a peculiarly private moment of grief. Her eye fell on the mug and plate on the table.

'Thanks for the supper, by the way. That was... nice.'

She smiled at him, and was gratified to receive a small smile back.

'You want tea?'

He nodded and moved to get up, but she stopped him.

'I can do it, you know. Wes, contrary to belief, making tea is not rocket science.'

She busied herself in the kitchen, studiously avoiding the topic of conversation that was uppermost in her mind. After she brought the tea, she got the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard; supplemented by the extra dressings the nurse had given them at the hospital.

'Need to change those dressings.'

Wesley stiffened as she began to unwrap the older bandages.

'Don't worry, the nurse showed me what to do.'

He leaned against the arm of the couch, still not relaxed, but allowed her to unbandage his arm. She turned it palm up, being careful to avoid the splinted fingers, exposed the burned skin. Four perfect circles, blistering over now; she could almost feel the heat radiating from them. This was the first time she had seen them properly, close up, and she sucked in a breath, breathed a curse. Couldn't help it. She looked up again and met his eyes.

'Bastard.'

He nodded in agreement, his blue eyes glowing. She had to look away; began to clean the round wounds carefully. He remained very still, watching her work. She redressed the wound and wrapped a clean bandage around his forearm.

'Thank you.'

She could not bear this. She dropped her face onto the arm of the couch and began to weep. There was no sound from the Englishman, but his hand moved to her neck, cradling her head against his shoulder with his good arm. She heard the rhythm of his heart, as he patted her hair softly. A gesture that was reassuringly awkward in its tenderness, it made her sob harder.

'Every thing he did to you... that should have been me, Wes. You should have done what he asked. You should have killed me.

A sharp little tug at her hair stopped her short.

'No. Don't believe what he said. Don't fall into that trap. My father manipulates people. It's what he does. God, Faith, I should know.'

His voice tailed off, and she angled her head to look at him. His gaze was not on her, eyes unfocused, staring at some point on the far wall of the apartment.

'He hurt you.'

Wes half laughed, lifted the bandaged arm a little.

'Very insightful.'

She shook her head. 'No, I don't mean that. Not last night. Before.'

His whole body stiffened, and she sat up, took in the tight closed expression on his face. Waited to be told it was none of her damn business. And it wasn't. This was a part of himself he would not reveal to anyone. A hurt so deep, he acknowledged it only in nightmares. Why would he want to share it with her? 

And yet she pressed on, intruding on his privacy, risking his wrath.

'He beat you up?'

His face was blank, expressionless. 'No. He never lost his temper, never yelled. Everything he did was calm, controlled.'

That was worse. That he meant to do it; hurt him by design, rather than by default. Sadist. He shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable with this particular conversation.

'It really doesn't matter. That part of my life is over. There's no point in dwelling on the past.'

But it is not the past; she wanted to say, eyeing the broken fingers, picturing the burn marks below the gauze. But she had no right to force this issue, not after the scars she had set upon him.

'You should try and get some sleep.'

His eyes flicked to the bedroom, where Connor lay, recovering from a more impersonal torture session.

'I'm fine. The sofa's surprisingly comfortable.'

'D'you need some painkillers?'

She had checked them earlier, noted with a degree of resignation that he had not been taking them regularly. Back in the hospital, the nurses in the emergency room had clicked their tongues, knew him too well.

 

'Back again, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. You just can't stay out of trouble.'

Wes had tried to make light of his injuries, but it was clear he was having a hard time keeping the pain under control. His face was white, his uninjured hand clenched into a tight fist, skin stretched milky pale over his knuckles.  
She was sent out while they tended his wounds, gave him something to ease the pain. When she was allowed back in, he was more relaxed, and ready to get out of there. She pocketed the pain medication the doctor had told him to take, and helped him out of the treatment room.

'Connor, how is he?'

They had both been shocked at the state of Angel's son. On the ride to the hospital, no one had spoken. Connor had drifted in and out of consciousness, while Wes had been working on not screaming in agony. She and the Soul Boy had tended their respective charges silently.

She stopped at the reception desk.

'Connor Angel, he was brought in with us about two hours ago. Could you tell us how he's doing?'

The charge nurse glanced up at the chart behind her.

'The doctor has already been in with him. He's due to be discharged soon.'

He really was a tough kid. As if on cue, Angel appeared from a curtained room, supporting the limping boy. When he saw them, his bruised eyes lit up.

'Wesley, Faith, are you alright?'

She saw Angel stiffen at his reaction to Wesley, then try to swallow down his anger.

'Connor, we should get home. You need to rest.'

The boy shook his head, showing a stubbornness that was his genetic inheritance.

'No. I'm not going back there. Not after last time.'

She watched Wes's head lift slightly at Connor's statement. She wasn't sure what had gone on between Angel and his son, but it was clear Connor would be much happier away from his father, at least for the moment.

'I want to go with them, Wesley and Faith.' He eyed his father with as much defiance as he could muster, and Faith could almost feel the soft growl that the vampire produced. She sensed his internal struggle, that to gain his son's trust he would have to put aside his resentment of Wesley. She looked hard at Connor's rather effective sullen brooding expression, and wryly wondered if he wasn't just a very good actor.

Angel sighed, obviously aware that he was being played. 'Okay.' 

He guided Connor over to them, reluctantly lifted his hand from the boy's shoulder.

'Take care of him.' He addressed Wesley directly, and the Englishman met his gaze with something approaching understanding.

'Of course.'

 

She went to the kitchen cabinet, took two pills from the strip and handed them to him with a glass of water.

'I'm fine. I took one earlier.' He looked up at her, his blue eyes slightly defiant.

'Liar. I counted them.'

He had the grace to look ashamed, the tips of his ears turning red.

'Do you want to end up in hospital again? That's what will happen.'

He took the pills from her, swallowed them, and tried to hide his grin.

'What? What's so funny?'

'You sound just like Cordelia.'

She didn't know whether to be insulted or flattered by the comparison.

'The cheerleader princess? You better watch it, Wes.' She warned jokingly, and amazingly he responded in kind.

'Bring it on, slayer.' He challenged with a little half smile, eyebrows quirked.

'Nah, too easy.' She threw back, indicating his injured arm.

'Not so tough without the slayer strength, are you?'

She could barely believe they were doing this, joking about this after all they had been through together. After what she had done to him. She looked at him, suddenly serious.

'You know I wouldn't, right?' She asked him quietly.

His expression became more solemn. 'I know.'

It was as near as she could come to an apology, and his quiet acceptance of it lifted a weight from her heart. They were still for a long moment, and then the silence was broken by a knock at the door. She stood, went over to answer it.

'It's probably Angel.' Wes said softly.

'Come to check on the kid. Don't worry, I'll frisk him for pillows before I let him in.'

'Funny girl.' He griped sarcastically, but not without humour.

She opened the door.

Before she could react, Wesley's father had her wrist behind her back, was pulling her into the apartment with a syringe poised at her neck. He smiled at Wesley in a grotesque parody of paternal affection.

'I believe we have some unfinished business, my boy.'


	7. Swimming to the Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 8 of 8. This chapter contains a line from 'Ground State', and a brief reference to dialogue in 'Five by Five'.

NOTES: Chapter 8 of 8. This chapter contains a line from 'Ground State', and a brief reference to dialogue in 'Five by Five'. 

 

Chapter 8: Swimming to the Light

 

A body lies open in the fisherman's yard  
Like the side of a ship where the iceberg rips  
One less soul in the soul cages  
One last curse on the fisherman's lips  
These are the soul cages   
These are the soul cages  
Swim to the light   
Swim to the light.

 

She pouted carefully into the rear view mirror, and applied a layer of dark plum lipstick, rather inappropriately titled 'Innocence'. She drew it across her lips, blotting them expertly on a folded tissue. Reached into her bag and fished out a small silver phial. She slipped off the cap of the tiny bottle, and sprayed her pulse points with the carefully chosen fragrance - 'Contradiction'.

She wondered if Wesley would recognize it.

She finished by sweeping her fingers through her hair, pausing for a moment to massage her scalp. Wondered idly if they would be able to replace the hair that Linwood had lost. Or the scalp, for that matter. The thought made her smile a little. That, and her current situation.

She had no idea why the Senior Partners were suddenly so keen to keep Angel Junior alive and well. Obviously something had come up in the mind scans, something that told them Connor was going to be a major player in whatever big apocalypse they had scheduled. Something they weren't going to divulge to the mere mortals who worked for them.

That was fine with her. Keeping the kid healthy suited her very nicely. It had given her a big in at Home Office; consolidated her position of power as head of Special Projects, and had demoted Linwood in the process. She thought fondly of Lindsey again, of his final farewell, threatening them playfully with his 'evil hand'. Thorn in her side he had certainly been, but she couldn't deny the man had style. A quality in which Linwood was totally lacking. She just couldn't see the firm stretching to 'evil hair plugs'. 

And then there was Wesley. Helping him and the slayer to save Connor had surprised him, she knew. She was keeping him guessing, and therefore interested. She was willing to admit to herself that she liked it when Wesley was interested. It made life more... stimulating. She allowed herself a small smile and gave the reflection in the rear view mirror an approving glance.

She snapped her purse closed, and checked her watch. The Cartier timepiece confirmed that Teuer had entered the building seven minutes and forty-three seconds earlier, and she was anxious to discover what the man had in mind for the slayer and her former watcher. She had learned early in her career to keep track of all the pieces in play, and she was certain that Teuer had a hidden agenda.

She let herself into the building and made her way upstairs to Wesley's apartment. She stopped outside his door, and listened carefully, but she could not make out what was being said. She reached into her bag and retrieved a key, the result of a carefully manoeuvred sleight of hand, a couple of weeks previously. She had only borrowed the spare key long enough to make the relevant impressions, and the firm's locksmiths had provided her with a perfect copy within hours. She slipped the key into the lock and turned it.

The scene before her was almost theatrical in its drama, as if she had wandered into some avant garde production of a Greek tragedy. The older Englishman had the slayer by the throat, and was restraining her with apparent ease, which made her wonder at his strength, or her lack of the same. He held a hypodermic syringe to her neck, and was looking at Wesley, who was standing stiffly by the couch. If possible, he looked even more damaged than he had last night, although she knew that was probably just the bruises darkening. A similarly battered Connor was visible through the open door of the bedroom, lying on Wes's bed, looking confused and groggy.

Teuer seemed supremely unruffled by her unexpected entrance.

'Ah. Ms. Morgan. How nice of you to join us.'

She nodded to him casually, determined not to be outdone by his nonchalance.

'Mr. Teuer.'

Wesley shot her a look of disbelief, and she felt a tiny twinge of something approaching regret.

'I have to say; I'm disappointed. I thought we had an agreement. A contract.' There was a layer of steel beneath the jovial tone.

'I don't follow you, Mr. Teuer. As far as my firm is concerned we have fulfilled the terms of the contract.' She indicated to Faith. 'You obviously have the slayer.'

He smiled icily. 'But you do not have the vampire's child.'

She waved her hand dismissively, feigning indifference.

'Oh, we had him. But he somehow managed to escape.'

She cast a glance at Wes as she spoke, trying to catch his eye. He steadfastly refused to meet hers. 

'I find it hard to believe that the child was able to escape without the help of someone with inside knowledge.' His voice had lost all pretence of joviality, and he was staring hard at her, his blue eyes glittering.

Faith took advantage of the slight distraction Lilah was providing, and aimed a kick at the Englishman's knee. He barely flinched, removed his hand from her throat and pulled her head back by the hair, emptying the contents of the syringe into her neck. She sighed softly, and slid to the floor almost instantaneously, either unconscious or dead, she couldn't tell which. Wesley made a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob.

'Stop that snivelling, Wesley. I haven't killed her. Haven't you been paying attention to anything I've said? Honestly,' he said, addressing her in a conversational tone, 'It's always been the same with him. In one ear and out the other.'

She suddenly stood very still, looking first at Wesley, then at the older Englishman. 

'Come on, my dear, I'm sure you can work it out.' He said condescendingly.

The similarity of accent could be coincidence, certainly. The fact that they both were connected to the Council of Watchers was perhaps little more than a simple twist of fate. But those eyes... How had she not seen it? How had she missed something so glaringly obvious?

'I was rather concerned at our first meeting, when you guessed my name was of German origin. I thought perhaps I had overestimated your country's linguistic ignorance, and that my little ruse would be discovered.'

Teuer. What the hell did that mean? She looked quizzically at the older man, who was smiling patronizingly at her. Wesley spoke then, his voice quiet.

'Teuer. It means dear, expensive.' That made no sense to her. He smiled sadly. 'Of high...'

'Price.' She finished, realization hitting hard.

She took in the bruises on the Wes's face, eyed his splinted fingers with a newfound fascination.

'You did this? To him?'

Wesley's father stepped closer to the couch; folded his arms across his chest.

'It was necessary.'

There was no hint of remorse, or even regret, in his voice. She felt a long forgotten, strangely familiar pang of sympathy in her heart, and quickly swallowed down the emotion, before it could take root. 

'Necessary to break his fingers?'' She made her tone light, conversational. 

The other man shrugged his shoulders slightly, as if deciding something.

'It had to be convincing. He had to believe.'

Wesley looked dazed, obviously this was news to him too.

'Come along, boy, you don't seriously think that Faith was the real target? That little tramp? We needed you to be kept occupied, while the real objective was achieved.'

Wesley was shaking his head in disbelief. 

'She was a decoy? You were using us?' He raised angry eyes to his father's cool ones.

'You utter bastard.'

Pryce Senior swung his fist, catching Wes on the chin, knocking him onto the couch. The casual ferocity of the blow made Lilah wonder idly how Wesley had survived childhood.

'You watch your tongue, my lad.' There seemed to be no great anger in his voice, just a hint of mild displeasure. It was really quite chilling.

'So Faith was nothing more than a distraction for Wesley?' She half-closed her eyelids, and smirked at them.

'If I'd known you wanted him kept busy, I could have provided the service myself. Free of charge.'

She was delighted to see Wes drop his head into his hands in despair. Pryce Senior looked vaguely disgusted.

'Sleeping with the enemy, Wesley. I should have guessed. As usual, you show an appalling lack of judgement, if unexpected good taste.'

That was a backhanded compliment if she ever heard one.

'What if I had killed Faith?' Wesley said softly.

'Oh, I knew you wouldn't, not straight away. You always loved those lost causes, Wesley. You just can't resist when they come calling, walking all over you, and you just lie down and let them do it. You've always been too soft for your own good.'

God, the man knew his son too well, knew where to aim to do most damage.

'I knew you'd resist for a few hours, if only to prove to me how strong you've become.' Acid sarcasm evident in his tone. 'I assumed that Ms. Morgan's firm would have completed their end of the bargain, before you finally cracked under pressure.'

So it was Connor, had been him, all along.

'Killing him was never part of the contract.' She pointed out pedantically.

'Forgive my bluntness, but you work for Hell on Earth. Inherently evil. And the tests you were planning to conduct involved him being dissected.'

She smiled politely.' We changed our mind. Connor is much more useful alive and - well - kicking, than floating around in a specimen jar.'

The older man shook his head apologetically, reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gun.

'I really didn't want it to come to this. It doesn't do to have the Council connected with cold-blooded murder.' 

He stepped over Faith's inert form, and made his way into the bedroom, where Connor lay. Wesley stood up quickly, and it was clear that he was still reeling from the most recent blow to his face.

'Lilah. We have to stop him.' He began to follow his father into the bedroom. She reached him, as he swayed in the doorway, his knees almost giving out.

'Your father's right, Wes. You are a sucker for lost causes.' She said, hauling him over to the bed, and depositing him there, none too gently. 

Connor had at least had the presence of mind to remove himself from the bed, and was currently backing away from the gun that Wesley's father had pointed at his heart. She sighed a little dramatically, and positioned herself between the vampire's child, and the muzzle of the weapon.

'Lilah, no.' Some small deep-down part of her rejoiced at the tremor in Wesley's voice. Made her wish that what she was doing was truly noble.

'Now, come along, Ms. Morgan, I've no wish to harm you. Please step away from the boy.'

'I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Pryce. I really can't allow you to kill Connor.'

The older man's face hardened, and for a instant she felt real fear. 

'Be assured, Ms. Morgan, I will kill you if I need to.'

Oh, she didn't doubt that for a moment. A man whose dedication to duty extended to the torture of his own child would have few qualms about shooting an employee of Hell on Earth.

'You can try, Mr. Pryce. But I think you'll find that you'll be unsuccessful.' 

He was thrown by her confidence.

'Our contract, you see, had more than one hidden clause. You discovered the one pertaining to your soul. However, you failed to detect the self-protection clause I had inserted. A standard precaution I always take when signing a contract.'

She quoted from memory.

'Any action taken by the first party - that would be you - against the second party - me - will be rendered null and void. Furthermore, if any such action is repeated, it will be instead be reversed and visited upon the perpetrator.' She smiled ruefully. 'Which means if you try to shoot me, you'll end up shooting yourself.'

For the first time she saw a crack in the cool, composed façade that the Englishman had presented thus far. His jaw tightened, and a muscle in his cheek twitched, almost imperceptibly. He drew his hand back, and swung it towards her face, testing the veracity of her statement. Although she knew she was perfectly safe, it took all her effort not to flinch as his hand neared her cheek. 

The blow did not land.

'I wouldn't do that again, Mr. Pryce. Although I'm sure your son would encourage you to try.'

She glanced at Wesley, who was staring at her open-mouthed, somewhere between shock and admiration. She turned back to his father again, enjoying the look of helpless fury on his face. She guessed that he was a man who was not used to being outsmarted.

'I think perhaps it's time you were going, Mr. Pryce. It seems you've rather outstayed your welcome.'

He clenched his teeth, and made an effort to sound calm.

'You can't protect him forever.'

She shrugged. 'I wasn't planning to. I'm guessing all this clandestine nonsense with the pseudonym means that the majority of the Council is unaware of true purpose of your operation. I'm sure they'll be very interested to hear that you were willing to murder an innocent child in cold blood.'

She could almost see his blood pressure rising. 

'You don't understand. You stupid woman, you haven't a clue what is coming!' 

'Hm. Insulting me is really not helping your case.'

She removed the gun from him, curled her fingers around it carefully.

'And you haven't been very nice to Wesley. You spanked him pretty hard. Perhaps you'd like to say sorry?'

She pretended to examine the safety catch. From the disgusted look he threw her, she imagined he would prefer to be shot at point blank range rather than offer any such apology.

'No? Oh, well, I did try.' She nudged him gently with the muzzle of the gun. 'Time to go, I think. I'll make sure you're escorted to the airport, so there'll be no sneaking back for any fond farewells with Watcher Junior.'

Wesley was on his feet now, still rather unsteady, not only from the physical violence, but also as a reaction to the scene he was currently witnessing.  
She motioned to the older Englishman with the gun, and he moved forward stiffly, his shoulders rigid with rage. She accompanied him, her hand resting on his arm as if he were her escort for the evening. As they passed Wesley, she paused, smiled seductively at him.

'You realize, of course, that you are now heavily in my debt.'

His eyes widened as she slid her free hand down his back, pinching his rear, hard enough to leave another bruise. She removed her hand carelessly, and relished the look of terror that momentarily crossed Wesley's face.

'Let's just say I'll be exacting a high price.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

He stepped into the hotel, and it occurred to him then that this was the first time he had entered this building since he had taken Connor, as a baby. He wrapped his arm firmly around the boy by his side, heavily aware of the irony of this current situation. Connor had not said much on the journey over, had simply accepted Wesley's declaration that he would be much safer at the hotel. He had insisted that both Wesley and Faith should accompany him, on the grounds that it was not much safer for them at Wes's apartment.

'What if he comes back?'

He had explained that his father would not be coming back. Lilah was nothing if not thorough. 

Faith had recovered consciousness not long after the second dose of the cruciamentum drug had been administered, and Wes had filled her in on the more important details of his father's removal, carefully avoiding any mention of the fact that her planned execution had been nothing more than a ruse. In truth, he was still reeling from the entire episode. It had been disturbing enough to undergo torture at the hands of his father, but to find out that it had simply been a ploy to ensure Connor's death... he was going to have add a whole new set of plotlines to his nightmares.

And now was not the time to deal with those matters. He suspected that Connor had his own daddy issues that needed to be addressed more immediately. Angel had come out of the office when he heard the lobby door open, and now stood facing them, his arms folded tight across his broad chest. He felt Connor's heart rate quicken at the sight of his father, and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze.

'Connor needs to be somewhere safe.'

The boy opened his mouth to argue, but stopped when Wes shook his head gently. 

'The council may send another... operative after you. It would be better if you were with someone who can protect you properly.' He looked to Angel.

'It's a pity you didn't think like that before you stole him.' The vampire's voice was no longer full of hate, but there was still the tension of unresolved conflict between them.

'Do you really want to do this, Angel?' He kept his own voice neutral, his own exasperated anger well subdued. 

'I can't go back and change it. I did what I thought was right with the information available. On reflection it wasn't the wisest of choices, but of course I didn't have the benefit of hindsight.' He couldn't help the note of sarcasm that had crept into his tone.

Connor took a step away from the two of them, and he let him go. The boy went over to Faith, who was slouching on the couch in the centre of the lobby, swinging a booted heel aimlessly.

Angel watched him move away, and addressed Wesley, his intonation betraying quiet anger and hurt.

'How could you? Wes? How could you believe I would have killed him! I'm his father, for God's sake!'

It always surprised him how obtuse the vampire could be, despite a hundred or so years of soul searching.

'Angel, I am living, breathing, barely walking proof of what a father is capable of! And if my father, a man, a souled human, could do this,' he touched his bandaged arm gingerly, 'then consider what a monster like Angelus might have done to your baby.'

'I wouldn't have let him!' Angel cried desperately.

'You couldn't have stopped him. I didn't know how the prophecy would play out, all I knew was I had to get Connor away from you.'

He saw the vampire cringe at these words, clearly fighting the urge to grab him by the scruff of the neck, and shake him till it snapped.

'And now I've brought him back to you. He needs you to protect him, love him, and forgive him.'

Angel ran his hand over his face distractedly.

'I do.' He whispered brokenly.

'Then you have to tell him that. He doesn't know it yet, and even when you tell him he won't believe it.' 

He swallowed; knowing that what he was about to say would be a stake in the vampire's heart.

'He loved Holtz ferociously, with a devotion borne of desperation. This world, our world, will never truly be home for Connor. You have to accept that.'

The vampire dropped his face into his hands, and Wesley was not sure if he was weeping.

'I can't forgive you for what you did, Wesley.' 

'Didn't ask you to.' He spoke very clearly. 'This isn't about us, Angel. It's about Connor. He needs you. Not to judge or punish, just to accept him for what he is, for whatever he's done.'

The same thing could be said of him, but he possessed enough self-awareness to understand the futility of such an appeal on his own behalf. Angel had made that very clear on every occasion they had met since the kidnapping. And he had begun to realize that he did not crave the vampire's forgiveness as much as he thought. It would, of course, be much more pleasant if they could resolve their differences, but he was managing quite nicely on his own, without the support of Angel Investigations.

For the first time in his life, he was no longer working in the shadow of another, trying to measure up to some impossible ideal. He was the one who had found Angel, he was the one Connor had chosen - he couldn't deny the selfish little frisson of satisfaction that thought gave him. And as amazing as it still seemed to him, Faith had sided with him against the souled vampire. He glanced over to the couch where the slayer now sat, her arm curved protectively around Connor's thin shoulders. She caught his look, and smiled back encouragingly.  
'Do you think you can do that?' 

The vampire nodded swiftly.

Wesley returned the nod, and headed over to the couch to fetch Angel's son.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Connor shifted a little beside her, and she tightened her arm around him in what she hoped was a comforting manner. She wasn't used to this at all, this feeling of being needed, of being relied upon. All her life she had relied on no one but herself, and it had become such a part of her nature that it was difficult to accept such a need in another. But her heart was moved by the bewildered naivety of the vampire's son, and by his devotion to Wesley.

She looked over at her former watcher, as he and Angel engaged in a fairly intense discussion. Compared to their recent encounters, this reunion was positively cordial; at least neither of them had pulled a weapon yet. If they came to blows she knew which side she'd be on, she thought, digging her free hand into her back pocket where she had shoved her stake. Wes seemed the more controlled of the two, was speaking with a quiet assurance that still surprised her.

She wasn't sure who this man was. No longer the man from her dreams, always watching. The man whose body bore the scars that had damned her to endless nightmares of guilt and shame. He was not that man any more. Now his body had been broken for her, bearing new scars that had saved her. Her betrayer now become her saviour.

She was also beginning to feel something more than simple gratitude or friendship for the man, and that frightened her more than she was willing to admit to herself. She had figured out that something was going on between Wes and the lady lawyer. Self-destructive and nasty as it seemed, it was pretty clear that they were involved in something more than a working relationship. And the jolt of unreasonable jealousy she experienced at that thought filled her with panic. 

She caught Wes looking over at them, and threw a smile his way. He spoke again to the vampire, then came over to them. Beside her, Connor looked up, his face open and trusting, like Wes was the saviour of the world. That must be pissing the vamp off so much; that Wes was getting the hero worship, while he got stuffed in a metal coffin at the bottom of the sea.

'Connor, he wants to talk to you.' 

A little touch of teenage sulkiness edged into Connor's voice. 'I don't want to.'

'Come on, Connor, we talked about this.' 

She was surprised by the firmness of Wes's voice, hadn't heard him speak so sharply to the boy before. And of course, it worked. Trust Wes to push all the right buttons. From the little she knew of Connor's background, his stepfather Holtz had been loving, but firm. Pretty much how Wes sounded now, she guessed.

Wes guided Connor back to Angel, his good hand resting on the boy's shoulder. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach as she watched him with the vampire's son. She couldn't make out what was being said, but after a few moments, Wes stepped back, and placed his hand briefly against Connor's cheek. A gesture of such open, gentle affection that it made her own heart ache.

He left father and son together and returned to sit beside her on the couch.

'You think it's safe to leave them alone?' She queried, in a half-teasing tone.

Wes shrugged, rubbed his hand over his stubble thoughtfully.

'As safe as one can ever be with Angel.' 

That sent chills racing down her spine, as she remembered the man she had tortured, the one who had hero-worshipped the souled vampire unquestioningly. Again she was seeing glimpses of a man she barely recognized.

'Angel insists on believing the fallacy that he cannot harm Connor, because he is his father. Despite the evidence to the contrary staring him in the face.'

She saw his eyes flick to the bandage across his forearm, and briefly imagined slitting Pryce Senior's throat. It was a disturbingly pleasant thought.

'I could go after him, Wes.' Her voice very low. 'At least pay him back for what he did to you.'

He raised his head, gave her a thoughtful look.

'Still into payback then, Faith.' 

Oh God, no. She couldn't believe she had just said that. He didn't sound angry, though. In fact, he looked incredibly calm and self-possessed, a long road travelled from his Sunnydale watcher days. She chewed her bottom lip absently, stopping only when she tasted iron.

'I can't take it back, Wes.' 

(What was done was done, could not be undone, however much she wished it so.)

'I agree. It can't be taken back. But you can let it go.'

She was terrified to look at him.

'I think I'm finally beginning to understand about forgiveness. It can't be earned, because Lord knows I've tried. But it can be given.' He paused, and looked straight into her eyes. 'And in giving it we set ourselves free.'

She almost fell off the couch, as she realized the implication of his words. Then there was a sound from across the lobby, and they looked over to see Connor drop his head into his hands, sobbing quietly. Angel reached out and drew his errant son into an embrace that was awkward in its gentleness.

'Looks like you're not the only one doing the forgiving tonight.'

For a moment she saw something in his face, a deep aching sorrow that seemed to cut into his soul. And then it was gone.

'Lucky Connor.' He whispered.

 

*~*~*~*

 

It was time she was going, she knew. They had been walking on eggshells for two days now, and it was up to her to do the stomping. She had accepted in her head that Wes felt nothing for her but friendship, even a slightly paternal affection. But each time she looked into those baby blues, she felt that lurch, as her stomach seemed to back flip. They had talked about what his father had done, and she sensed that Wes was incredibly uncomfortable with the fact that she had witnessed his father's torture of him. Never mind that it had all been done to protect her, that it was the most selfless act anyone had ever committed on her behalf.

No, it was better that she leave now, before she fell completely.

'Faith, you really don't have to go.' 

He stood facing her, his arms folded across his chest, as she leaned against the counter of the lobby.

'We could use your help finding Cordelia.'

Even he knew how lame that sounded, and he reddened with embarrassment.

'Come on, Wes. Is that the best you can do? And what makes you think I'd want to find the cheerleader princess? Far as I can see, you're better off without her.'

He gave her that look, the upside down smile, eyebrow quirked up, and her insides flipped again.

'Think I might be more use in Sunnydale than I'd be to you.'

'Have you been going behind my back to Giles again, Faith?'

She froze, as she recognized the stuffy watcher voice from Sunnydale. Then reached over and shoved him lightly when she saw the grin crack his poker face.

'Sorry, couldn't resist. Giles called me earlier to check up on you. I told him you'd be an asset in any situation.'

'That's a good thing, right?'

He shot her another look, scornful of her feigned ignorance.

She picked up her duffle bag, hefted it onto her shoulder easily, slayer strength fully returned. She had already done the other goodbyes, and it was just the two of them in the lobby now. 

'Be seeing you, Watcher. She set the tone quickly, before he could get sentimental. 'You know where to find me if Angel starts any more pillow fights.'

He fell into step behind her, responding in kind.

'Take care, Slayer. Try to stay one step ahead of the lynch mob.'

She turned at the door, and saw his face soften, thinking he had hurt her.

'It'll be okay, Faith. Really, it will.'

She leaned in to him, brushed her lips over his own, so swiftly that he barely had time to acknowledge the kiss before she pulled away.

'Hell, yes. If you can forgive me, Wes, anyone can.'

 

*~*~*~*

 

The armour-plated demon swung his huge feet onto the low coffee table in front of him, and took another sip of his bottle of Pete's Wicked. He picked up the remote, and pressed a button, and the television screen in front of him switched to the dark oppressive study he had shown Wesley during the locator spell. That had been a fun part for him to play, the kindly, concerned guest star in the Englishman's private hell.

He watched the older man talking on the 'phone, his face hard, blue eyes full of despair. He had to hand it to the guy; he had done his best to thwart the prophecy, even to the extent of torturing his own son. Now there was a dedication to the cause you just didn't see these days. He raised his bottle to the man on the screen in salute.

'Kudos to you, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, Senior. '

Of course, he was never going to prevail. His bosses had spent the better part of three years setting up this apocalypse; there was no way they were going to allow one of their key players to be destroyed just weeks before the prophecy could be fulfilled.

He flicked channels again, and the screen shimmered, as the golden-haired seer filled the screen.

'Ah, 'Cordy's' on again.' He smiled contently as the amnesiac woman looked around her, patently bored.

'Thank God she chose the demonization over the show - now there's a horror I wouldn't want to inflict on my worst enemy.'

He turned the sound up, loud enough to hear her say - 'What are you, deficient? Get me out of here!'

He took another sip of his beer and stretched his arm behind his head.

'All in good time, Cordelia. Pretty soon you'll be back home. Back with Angel and Wesley and... oh yes, Connor.'

He smiled nastily.

'Just one big happy family...'

 

FIN


End file.
